Absolution
by auriellis
Summary: Sequel to Repression and Corruption. One spark of emotion was all it took for the Joker to make his decision. Harley Quinn had to die. Joker/Harley. Rated M for a reason.
1. Prologue: All Good Things

_**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**_

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**A/N: Welcome back to my world of Mr. J and Harley! I've decided these two needed another tale. For those of you who are new, please check out my other two stories "Repression" and "Corruption" to help you get in the relationship I've created. For those of you who have read my work previously, this prologue takes place during the final scene of "Repression" after Harley has been sent to Arkham. Feel free to go back to that story and read up on that last section to help you get back into things. **

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Prologue: All Good Things

The smirk crossed her face as Harley noticed the time ticking, so close to the appointed hour. Her skin was itching on the inside from the bundle of nervous hope that ran within her, anticipating what might come. In all honesty, she didn't truly believe he'd fulfill their previous arrangements. He wasn't a man to forgive so lightly after the huge disappointment her actions had no doubt caused. Even so, with disaster looming over her head, her emotions raced with the thrill of uncertainty. She knew him better than anyone else could, and yet, he was a stranger. Mr. J. Her chaos contained.

The camera watched her, continuing to film her reactions and her scattered moments. With the piercing sharpness of the red "on" light glaring in her eyes, she decided to play the moment. It didn't matter what occurred in actuality. If Mr. J taught her anything, it was to "always keep them guessing." Truly, if anything, that was the secret to understanding him. It was why she had never been able to figure him out as either his psychiatrist or as his lover. It was why he needed her in his life. Not as a stabilization factor but as proof that no matter how much the mundane world was trapped by its routine, someone could still surprise him. She kept him guessing.

It was strange to be on the other side of Arkham as a patient rather than a doctor. But Harley couldn't deny that it did feel like coming home to her. She missed the chipping paint of the walls, the screams, and the excited fervor that coursed through the air. Not much had changed since she left. It still smelled of the same cleaning agents, the same strange flower scent that she could never identify. In fact, the only real difference to her eyes was the heavier security. No doubt bumped up after the riots of last year, the ones that led to her fate.

The asylum was full of life and memory. The first meeting with Mr. J, those tense silent moments where they studied each other. Those hours in her office when she poured over her notes, trying to find a way to help him. She couldn't help but remember the conversations between them, so raw and detailed, getting to the heart of her. Finding her truest self. A shake of the hand, a touch down her spine, his needs and her needs, all wrapped up into one place like a cozy blanket. Arkham was the beginning.

Her eyes darted back up to the clock, ready to put on a show. As the second hand moved, she stared into the lens of the digital recorder, a smirk plastered on her face. "Boom," she said, calmly to the unseen crowd.

A second later, the wall exploded inward sending flying chunks of brick and cement into the room. Several pieces barreled past her head, missing her by inches. If the camera hadn't been smashed on the floor, Harley was certain it would have captured the surprised look in her eyes. She hadn't really expected anything to happen, not so soon. Too soon, in fact, which made her wonder what would be waiting for her on the other side of the smoking crater. A pat on the head or a noose? Either way, she could feel his presence nearby, waiting for her. Her heart fluttered madly, wanting nothing more than to be at his side again. Maybe he forgave her, maybe not. Either way, they would reunited.

Dr. Leland would have quite the surprise when she finally viewed the video. It would make Harley seem psychic, knowing exactly when the wall would explode. And the doctor would ponder the possibility that Harley sent her out of harm's way on purpose with cruel words, to prevent her death from the explosion. True, Harley was trying to save her life, but not from the wall exploding. If Mr. J walked in, Joan was a dead woman and the part of Harley that still cared about her former colleague didn't want that to happen.

The entire plan was quite simple. With Harley's history, it was likely Dr. Leland would assign the case to herself, showing compassion for the woman she once called a friend. Through various contacts, Joan's schedule had been procured. It hadn't changed much in the past year. Arkham patients were often lifers, people who didn't want or couldn't accept the help given to them. And with Harley's understanding of the doctor's mentality and how she arranged her daily therapy schedules, she knew that Joan would put her just before lunch, allowing her the time to refresh her mind from the darkness and viciousness that someone like Harley Quinn could spin. Harley found herself doing the same with Mr. J after his sessions, needing that hour to calm down and think about his words.

Standing, she twisted in the straitjacket until her arms were free, a trick she had observed Mr. J perform many times. It wasn't hard with her double jointed shoulders and in no time, the jacket was on the couch where she had been sitting. Glancing at the clock, she estimated about ten minutes before response time from the security staff. They had strict orders to secure the patients first, a repercussion of the Fear Night escape. Her own guards would be in another wing, sent away by Joan at the beginning of the session. An amusing attempt to make Harley feel safe. Whatever the hilarious reasoning, it would give her enough time to make her escape.

Flicking a few buttons aside, she shoved a hand down the front of her Arkham uniform, gripping the letter she had written in her cell. A pen and paper were easy to procure with the stupidity of the guards. Joan's questions were standard so the letter would be the perfect touch to her brief visit at Arkham. Smiling, she dropped the note on top of the jacket and strolled through the decimated wall into the cold daylight of autumn.

Blinded by the sunlight, she didn't anticipate the hand that violently yanked her off balance, jerking her towards the outer wall of Arkham. Harley fought not to trip at the assaulting motion but she found herself steadied by an arm snaking around her neck, holding her upright. Her body was facing the wall, a few feet away from the hole in Joan's office. As much as her rational mind believed it was a guard that was lingering outside to inspect the damage, her heart knew better.

"Gotta buy a girl dinner first if you want that kind of action," Harley snarled, her hands pushing at the wall, hoping to gain some leverage if there was going to be a real fight. She expected the next move would be him pressing her fully against the wall and restraining her further. Instead, the arm tightened around her neck, a low chuckle rumbling in her ear. The sound brought her to a limp standstill, like Pavlov's well-trained dog, and she leaned back automatically against the body that was pressed behind her.

"Mr. J." Her tone came out as a longing sigh, yet it couldn't mask her hesitation at his appearance.

"You wouldn't happen to be hoping for someone else, would you? A wilting flower? Maybe Claude Rains?" The raspy voice lingered against her ear, his breath as hot as ever. Mr. J was angry. She didn't need to see his face to know it. She could feel it in the way his arm jerked tighter against her throat, not in their usual playful manner, cutting off her air. "I gave you a choice and you chose wrong. Little, foolish Harley."

"You know exactly," she gasped for enough air to finish her sentence, "why I did it."

There was a pause in the air, a moment of silence as she wondered what he would do. Then, the arm released its hold, and as she sucked in a much needed breath, she was forcibly turned around by his strong hands, face to face with the man that everyone feared. The white greasepaint melting against the skin of his face, the red smeared over his Glasgow smile, and the black surrounding his cold eyes. She could get lost inside those depths, never knowing which turns he was taking inside his mind.

Mr. J's left hand wrapped around her shoulders, not as harshly as she would have liked, but enough to keep her in place as his right hand brought a blade up. His hands were bare, no gloves to show his constant detachment. He was in the moment as much as she. Harley nodded at him, slowly. Resignation filled her as she paid homage to the agreement that passed unspoken between them so long ago. She understood was what coming and while one part of her, a tiny part, screamed to fight it, the rest of her mind reminded her that this was the inevitable conclusion of their dance. To let them both enjoy those final moments.

She smiled at him, reaching up to touch his face and brush a stray strand of hair aside. "A personal touch."

His lips formed a smile as the bare hand on her shoulder squeezed. "You've earned it."

"Just promise me one thing," she said, looking him dead in his dark eyes.

"Hmm?" His own eyes flickered up to her before fixating on the knife's positioning at her neck.

"Make it hurt." Harley couldn't imagine a better fate than to have her lover's skilled blade carving into her like butter. No one else could bring her to true pain, like him. He was the only one who knew those secrets. Not the pain that twisted in her head, making her scream in pleasure. Mr. J knew the darkest parts, the places that caused her true agony that couldn't be concealed under lust and tortuous bliss. She wanted to feel. To know. Not to be deceived by her mind. It had to hurt.

The blade kissed the skin of her throat and she shuddered. Arkham was the beginning, yes. It would also be the end. Strangely fitting. Her fingers stroked his cheek as she leaned her head back to give him the proper canvas he deserved. Tears did not form in her eyes. Harley wasn't sad, angry, or any other emotion she could describe. She was calm, no longer troubled by the emotions that raged within her. For once in her fucked up existence, she felt true peace.

The smile on her lips faded as she closed her eyes. "I have never loved you more than I do right now, Mr. J."

"I know," he said.

Then she felt the blade pierce into her skin.

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**A/N: I will be updating this less frequently than I have with stories in the past. My job keeps me pretty busy. But I will finish this. And for those wondering about my Crane story, I am working on it, slowly. I just haven't had the motivation to really get into it. **

**Questions, comments, feedback, please review! **


	2. The True King

Chapter One: The True King

_Two Months Prior..._

"Why are we going to this hoity-toity nightclub, anyways?" Harley asked, leaning forward from her spot in the back seat to slide her arms around the head rest of the passenger seat and settle her chin on his shoulder. Like a dog riding in the back who wants its owners attention.

Gum popping. Smacking. That was all he could hear as she breathed next to his ear. Mr. J's eyes narrowed as he turned his head towards her. Attention seeking and pathetic. His left hand shot up, pressing backwards into her face and shoving her off of him. Makeup smudged the shoulder of his jacket from the perfect white face paint that she wore. His harlequin warrior. He had crafted her in his image, in his own way of seeing the world. To her, he was God. But despite all efforts, he could not fully control her volatile nature. She might have a leash but it didn't make her any less rabid. And like any pet, Harley craved the reaction of her master. He would indulge her for now.

"If you don't spit out that gum, I will rip out your teeth one at a time and make a necklace," he growled, staring at the imprint of her facial greasepaint on his glove before rubbing it against his pants, unconcerned with the mess.

He could almost hear Harley's lips turn up into that dangerous smirk as she sat back and smacked her gum loudly. "Promise?"

"Uh, can you wait until I park the car, at least?" the driver asked, a nervous lilt in Doc's voice. "I just bought this thing and it has that whole new car scent and not the old blood scent that the last one did. I'd like to keep it that way."

"That was the best part of it, though," Harley commented, absently. "The car smelled like death."

The driver snorted. "Except you didn't die when you got shot and instead just ruined the upholstery, Barbie."

Doc's snide comments weren't really intended to bait Harley's anger. The former Arkham inmate just didn't understand how to act in social situations, always speaking his mind to horrible results. Exactly why Mr. J gave him strict instructions to stay silent during jobs. Despite consciously knowing that Doc meant nothing by his offhanded remark, Harley's emotions had peaked inside her and she was reacting by instinct. Mr. J could sense the motion behind him and shot his arm out to block her from grabbing at Doc. Then he twisted his arm and grasped her by the throat, turning around in his seat to stare at her.

Their eyes met in the darkness of the car, only the light of street lamps illuminating their faces. Her smirk disappeared as she tested his dominance in her usual way, pushing her neck against his hand, daring him to kill her, knowing he wouldn't. Pressing, pressing, always pressing. She thought herself equal because he began to use her mind to his own ends, not understanding she was another tool, another weapon to unleash. She had creativity, a unique perspective, and that gave her value. Her other assets were appreciated but unnecessary. But he understood that she also saw herself as his companion, his life-mate. In the dark of night when she slept, he often considered smothering her to prevent that line of thinking from being spoke aloud. She would not appreciate the conversation that followed. Neither would he, for that matter.

"No striking the driver, Harley," Mr. J said, taking his other gloved hand and placing it in front of her mouth, palm up.

Her big blue eyes darted down to his open palm and then back up to his face in defiance, wanting to win this war for once. She never would, not against him. A true battle of their wills would leave her acute mind staggering. And he did know all her triggers, her little secrets. She gave herself to him and that gave him final control. Harley wasn't weak, not by any means, but she had her flaws. That nagging sense of compassion still lingering somewhere inside her, if only appearing when her friends were in danger. For himself and Doc, it was acceptable when she became unpredictable to save them, but extended outside, it was a problem. Good thing that anyone else was nothing to her, but if she truly wanted to play the game, he would never fight fair.

For now, Harley was just dancing with him, nothing real. And as expected, she spit the gum out into his hand, a sign that her submission was not in question. He never doubted it for a minute. For there would never be a day that she would be completely free of him. Even when he died, Harley would be haunted by his metaphorical ghost, never living a full life because her mind would be so wrapped up in what they had together. For her, it was love, something so pitiful, but so useful to exploit. He understood the concept. Hormones and emotions, things that didn't affect him. And Harley never questioned whether he felt anything for her because she accepted that he would never see her in the same light. Maybe even surmised that he had no true emotion. Yet, her dedication never wavered.

Mr. J turned, lowering the window for a second to toss the gum out. "It's not the club."

"Huh?" Harley's confused voice rang out from the back.

"You asked why. It's not the club that matters," he said, glancing over to Doc who was lighting a cigarette. "It's all about the man in charge."

Smoke filled the cramped car quickly but none of them moved to open a window and alleviate the stench. Harley's face appeared between them, her arms resting on the backs of either seat. "What's so special about the man in charge? We killing him?"

"No," Mr. J said.

A puff of air tickled his ear as she sighed, over-exaggerated. "Boring. For being a master of chaos, you don't create enough."

At that, Mr. J laughed. Harley did know how to make him laugh, he'd give her that. Staring out at dark streets of Gotham, he said, "You do realize that chaos creates itself regardless of our actions."

"Less fun for us," Harley said, huffing as she flopped back against her seat. Probably even folded her arms like a child throwing a tantrum. "I want some action."

"Can't always get what you want," Mr. J said.

"_But sometimes, you get what you need_," Doc sang and then burst out laughing. From behind him, Harley snickered.

Doc had chosen Harley and Mr. J as his family, despite his love-hate relationship with the girl. He could have left, fled, probably died for trying, but he saw Mr. J as his savior, just like Harley. And it was too easy to manipulate a mind like Doc's, creative, vicious, yearning for revenge. A gun to be aimed with the right ammo. His official diagnosis was Schizoid Personality Disorder. Mr. J's analysis went far deeper than that, searching beneath his insanity to find something useful beyond basic skills. He found it. Doc had a streak of brutality that was often incorporated into their plans. A genius of new and daring ways to approach situations. And with his die-hard loyalty, he was a man that Mr. J would keep around as long as he was useful.

The car approached the club and Mr. J simply looked at Doc. He didn't need to be told where to go, Doc had an innate sense when it came to Mr. J's wants. And soon the club was barely glimmer in the rear view mirror when it stopped. Mr. J could hear Harley fiddling with her guns in the backseat and he shook his head. "Won't need those."

"Better safe than sorry," she said.

Mr. J smiled. "Exactly what I was thinking." Then he tossed a small metal object back at her. She snatched out of the air with grace, looking down at it, a grin spreading across her black painted lips.

"This what I think it is?" She examined the object before slipping it into her pocket along with her guns.

"Had the boys do some prep work earlier today."

"Question is, where?" Harley tilted her head, curiosity peeking through her dark lashes.

Mr. J didn't reply. Instead, he exited the vehicle and headed back the way they came, towards the direction of the club. No need to look behind to see Harley rushing to catch up, desperate not to be left behind. She wanted her action this night and if she did well, maybe he'd allow her a taste. His eyes scanned the area, darkened alleys, street signs, how many people were out in the acceptable weather. Citizens were beginning to notice them strolling down the street as if they belonged among the crowds, no care for their hysterics. The clown couple invoked so many reactions from the masses. Tears, screams, sweat, frantic calls to the police. All predictable, lemmings the lot. Boring and not able to break free of the mold. Just once he wished someone would do something to surprise him.

Oh but he supposed Gotham had offered its one surprise in his Harley. The girl with so many secrets sealed away in the guise of control. She was a piece of coal being smashed by too much pressure. The potential was there from day one in Arkham. Doc may have been a side reward from the escape, but Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the true prize. The woman who had been broken, her mind shattered into something carnal, and she needed someone like Mr. J to open her to her truest self. To let her be free. Her multitude of physical scars were only a small piece of the puzzle. Her mind was the component, the one thing to unlock. He ripped past her barriers while she fought to give up everything, even her life, only to give in to him in the end. Because she needed him, then, as much as she needed him now. She was reborn as Harley Quinn.

As they approached the club, Mr. J observed the meager outdoor security. Two cameras and a bouncer. A line of patrons was waiting to get in, always wanting one last night of partying before the cold set in. Too soon but that was always the excuse. One last good weekend. But like himself, the weather in Gotham was unpredictable. There was an old saying. _If you don't like the weather, just wait an hour._ It would change, as always. Hot days in winter, cold days in summer. At the moment, it was a mild evening in early fall. The perfect weather for many things. Looking up, he noted that the moon was full. Also, the perfect night for the crazies to be out. It was a concoction to make this evening chaotic. Just what Harley desired.

"Want to play with the people in line?" Harley asked, excited by the buzz in the air, as they drew closer.

"We're here for a reason," Mr. J replied. Then with a smile twisting his lips, he looked over at her. "Besides, there won't be any people in line."

More predictability from the masses as he and Harley strolled past the line. He could hear the gasps of the mob, the whimpers. He could see the frightened looks and worried eyes. No outright screaming, a shame. But then again, they weren't the goal. And as soon as the first patron realized this and fled from the line, others quickly followed. Some walking quickly, most running for their lives. As stupid as they were, almost everyone had basic common sense and survival instincts. Almost everyone.

One woman still remained in line, big brown eyes wide as she observed Mr. J and Harley moving up the empty rope line towards her. She looked fragile. Weak. A short frame. Her skin and hair indicated a Latino origin. Dressed to dance, comfortable black shoes but the rest of her attire was designed to attract. Red and black, low cut shirt, midriff showing. Short skirt. She was looking for action. Males, females, didn't matter. She was there, like so many others, to be seen, to be desired. And she didn't run away. Did she stay, frozen from her overwhelming terror? No. The pupils were wide but not the size they needed to be for real fear. She wasn't stock still either. She shifted slightly, her head following their motion to get a better look as they drew nearer to her. This was a look of fascination, curiosity. There was unease there, but not enough. And a lot of nervous energy, as if this was an important event in her life. Ah, that was it. She idolized him or Harley or both. He laughed to himself at the realization. She wasn't the first fan by any means.

Mr. J stopped directly in front of her, looking down into her soul. The smile on his face grew as the girl met his eyes without blinking. Interesting. The last one couldn't look him in the eyes, all nerves and no vocal chords. But she had that Latino blood, all fiery and determined. She may have looked fragile but he suspected she had some hidden depths and a tongue to match her heritage. Behind him, he could feel Harley fidget impatiently. As a former psychiatrist, she would have recognized the signs as he did. She wanted to get on with business, not dawdle with their fan club. Mr. J, though, had an idea.

"Not running away with your chums?" he asked the girl.

It took her a moment to find her voice before she said, "It's you." Admiration was noted in her sighed tone. "I can't believe it."

Mr. J did a dramatic bow, playing to expectations of theatricality. "In the flesh."

"I always wanted to meet you," she said, her words quick and staccato.

He scanned her up and down again. Deeper. Innocence. She had never killed. Never felt real blood on her hands. Soft fingers, not a worker. Fragile, as suspected. She was practical, her shoes indicating she could run if needed at any moment. Also meant that she was running within her own life. A girl with problems. But she had that devotion he sought in members of his crew. The girl could be an addition. He chose the insane, the dedicated, simply because they didn't look for their reward in payments but rather in the work itself. And anyone who held that look in their eye when staring him in the face was certainly insane. It was obvious when anyone looked at Harley. But was the insanity enough? Time to play.

"What's your name?" he asked the girl.

"Ana." The Spanish flavor of the name, making it flow better than the Americanized Anna.

"Ana." He tasted the name on his lips and decided it was soft, too feminine. "How'd you like to join me and Harley inside?" Mr. J wrapped an arm around her tiny shoulders, slowly guiding her towards the double doors of the entrance. "We're meeting some of Gotham's elite."

Her face flushed a tad from his touch. Physical attraction to him. Mundane but useful. She looked up at him, eyes widening further. "Really? You want me to come with you?"

"Why not? You seem like a woman who knows what she wants and tonight, you're getting the chance of a lifetime. You'll even get to meet the owner of this club." He raised his hand up to point at the marquee sign, lit in bright blues and whites. _The Iceberg Lounge._ "Mr. Oswald Cobblepot."

Ana smiled widely, perfect teeth gleaming in the yellow street light. "I'd like that."

"It will be a night to remember," Mr. J said, ominously, as he looked backed to Harley. She rolled her eyes at his melodrama but had a smile on her face. She knew where this was going, always in sync with him, and while it may not have been her cup of tea, she liked that he wanted to test the new girl.

The three walked towards the entrance. The interlude with Ana cost them the factor of surprise, the bouncer gone from his spot. No doubt reporting to his employer of his guest at the doors. Mr. J was disappointed, looking forward to that moment when the bouncer noticed who wanted into the exclusive club. The look was always precious and valued. Not this night, though. Thing changed and adaptability was needed. He waved to the camera on the outside before Harley opened one of the doors for him. No hesitation as he pushed Ana in front of him, just in case. A line of gunman would hit her first, giving him warning. No bullets went flying, no dead girl on the ground. A good sign that Cobblepot wasn't looking to pick a fight.

Unlike Harley, whose hand was twitching inside her black and red ringmaster's jacket. She was itching for some violence. She gave quick glances to Mr. J every second to judge what she should do, following his lead with practiced ease. Her restraint had become admirable. Time was, not so long ago, she would have run and did whatever she wanted, no care for what was needed. That was her downfall, her "id" state, the result of experiments by her former college lover. Her control fled her, giving into instinct and dynamic emotions, always changing, unstable. Guilt drove her to suppress her destructive nature, inside a mask, a shell. And then she met him and the floodgates reopened. He found the real Harleen Quinzel and trained her to be his tool, to do his will, no longer her own woman. She hadn't been her own woman since the moment she accepted his case at the asylum.

With Harley on his heels, he sauntered into the club, taking it in. Blueprints could only show so much. Structural weak points, hidden electrical lines, exit points. But it couldn't capture the feel of a location. The Iceberg Lounge was, for lack of a better term, swanky. It took the style of an old jazz speakeasy and mixed it with a modern twist. Sharp blues combined with steel chrome. A stage to host live musicians. Tables only, no booths. While it was ritzy, the place lacked any warmth, and it wasn't just because of the color scheme. A front, a place to cover up the real business. Mr. J could spot it easily. Obviously, the line outside didn't. They wanted to be part of the popular club and drunk patrons made great camouflage for the beast within. Cobblepot had more panache than those who had come before.

"Where is everyone?" Harley asked.

The club was silent. Empty. No one was inside. Not even the band or the bouncer. It was well past open per the sign outside, but no one had been let in. And with the clown couple present, it seemed that the night's profits would be nullified. Mr. J smirked, knowing the reason. "Come on," he ordered with a gesture for her and Ana to follow.

Past the décor, beyond the top shelf bar, was a door. Not the only one in the club, but the only one that mattered. The door led to a curtain, voices heard beyond, all male. A secret gathering. One important enough to shut down the club. The last secret gathering of this sort ended in bloodshed. Harley came home satisfied and covered in crimson, the blood of the mafia leaders coating her like butter. This one was different, though. New players, new game. Settled in and ready to work. The moment had come.

Mr. J pushed past the curtain, slipping his left hand into his pocket, entering a richly decorated, low lit room with six green felt tables. For those in the know, poker games regularly occurred in the room during business hours, the side business for those more discerning customers. High stakes, massive security. Cameras aimed in every direction, allowing each player to feel comfortable and cheaters demotivated. Tonight, a different kind of poker was being played.

Around the room, many different men sat, all armed, all lower level. Flunkies to the guests of honor that sat at a large cherry wood table in the middle of the room. Eight men and one woman. All sat on the long sides of the table, with one man presiding over the meeting at the head. The legacy of Gotham's mafia. The heirs to the empire. After Mr. J's move to take out their predecessors via Harley, they had gone to war. They didn't make the link, see the connection. No one saw her come in or come out. Everyone was dead. Everyone but Carmine Falcone who had missed the meeting on account of health issues. The first assumption was the Falcone family, but too obvious. Even they weren't so stupid, so the destruction began. Just as Mr. J wanted. Chaos amongst the families, the mafia no longer functional. Only the internal war that was slowly spreading outside of their playground into the heart of the city and the innocent civilians.

And then Oswald Cobblepot made his debut. Mr. J didn't know how he did it, yet, but he managed to reign in all the empires under his umbrella. Almost all. Falcone was the lone holdout but that didn't matter when so many had come to peaceful accord. The war ended and the mafia was back to business, finding a new purpose. All because of one man, Mr. J's chaotically constructed plan had fizzled. And he needed to meet the man who made it happen.

Every eye and gun turned at his entrance, glancing and aiming at the new arrivals. With so many weapons pointed at them, Mr. J was content. Reputation was a hard thing to gain in a city like Gotham. Harley moved beside him and waved to everyone with her demented smile. A glance back revealed that Ana, though, wasn't coping as well with the danger of her situation, tears forming at the sides of her eyes. Win some, lose some.

His turned his attention to the head of the table. He knew the other faces too well but Cobblepot was only a photograph. Now real, he saw the confidence, the power. A larger man, round but not overly so. His frame from Mr. J's angle indicated he was no taller than 5'3". A shorter man, but had the aura of someone much larger. Napoleon's protégé. Short black hair, prominent nose, a vulture look to him. Oswald wore a tuxedo, comfortable in it, showing he wore it often. But the tuxedo spoke volumes to his origins. He wasn't raised in wealth. He came into it and this was his way of showing he had it. Tacky but effective. Many secrets hidden by it. He was not one to talk about himself. All business. One thing, though, stood out. A weakness. A small red boutonniere on the lapel. Red. Cobblepot, like Ana, was looking to attract a partner. Lonely. Easy to exploit.

"Joker." Cobblepot inclined his head, his voice a min-tenor, clearly trying to establish control from the start with the first words. "Why are you here?"

Mr. J smiled and took up the seat opposite of him. The other head of the table. "My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Or Harley burned it." She tittered, standing behind him.

"You have thirty seconds to state your business before I give the order to have you and your companions executed," Cobblepot said. He was all nerves despite the threat. The others wouldn't see but Mr. J did. The owner of the Iceberg Lounge knew he was in a precarious situation. He didn't want to look weak but he also didn't want to face off against Gotham's most famous terrorist.

"Harley," Mr. J waved his right hand towards her. She stepped to his side, pulling out the metal item that he had given her in the car. She displayed it for the inspection of the assembled crowd, the smile dropping from her face as she made it clear what she was willing to do. Everyone seemed to take a mental step back, recognizing the piece as a homemade detonator, her thumb on the trigger. "Do that, Ozzie, and things are going to get a little explosive."

Cobblepot visibly bristled at the shortening of his first name but conceded. "What do you want." It wasn't a question. A demand.

Mr. J widened his eyes, looking innocent. "Me? Why I've just come to say hello to the new King of Gotham. That's all." He gave a thumbs up. "Good job getting them back in line."

He watched as Harley circled the table, tracing the backs of each of the attendees with her gloved fingers, much to the confusion and alarm of their trigger happy henchmen. Even Mr. J had to admit she was strange sometimes. She paused for a moment, her eyes flickering towards a darkened corner of the room, her body language stiffening before shaking her head and continuing. Focus was diverted and he switched it back to the man in charge.

"You never do anything without a purpose," Oswald said. "So, again I ask, what do you want?"

"It's the opposite, you see. What I want doesn't matter. It's what you want."

"And what do you believe I want?"

"This chair," Mr. J gestured to the seat he had stolen, "seems to be empty. Wrong season for Elijah so either you're expecting a death in the family, or you're looking for a reunion."

"If I wanted Falcone dead, he'd be dead," Cobblepot said.

"But you want him here. Kissing your boot with the rest of this sycophantic lot."

At the insulting comment, one of the seated men, the Riley heir, reached into his jacket for a weapon. The second his hand disappeared, an ear shattering boom rocked through the room. Screams erupted as everyone expected fire and debris to come raining down, little Ana's, the loudest scream by far. But only the ground shook. Not enough to cause anyone to fall, but enough to rattle everyone. Mr. J glanced over to Harley, who had just pressed the trigger on the detonator.

"Oops," she said, biting her lip like a naughty child, hiding the laughter that was threatening to bubble out. "My finger slipped."

Mr. J looked over to the visibly shaken Cobblepot, who opened his mouth to order the gunmen to fire on the intruders now that Harley's trigger had been set off. The clown shook his right finger at Oswald in admonishment, "Ah, ah, ah," and pulled his left hand out of his pocket, standing up. Gripped in his hand, since the moment he walked in, was another detonator.

"You see, Harley's toy was linked to the building next door. But mine, here, is to the bomb in your basement." He'd given Harley the other detonator knowing full well she'd use it at some point. Whether through need or through boredom, it would go off. She did love a good explosion and would give up her life for one spectacular moment, if the mood struck. Played her part well.

"You're bluffing," the lone woman at the table said. "You wouldn't kill yourself."

At that, Harley laughed loudly, mocking the woman's words with her peels of hysteria. Mr. J couldn't help but smile at her. She understood more than anyone how far he would go. He never bluffed. Beneath the Iceberg Lounge were several barrels of gasoline, set to blow at the push of a button. And he would press the button if the situation called for it. In a heartbeat. But he was also a man with an exit strategy, and he'd studied the floor plans extensively. If he had to hit the trigger, he'd have a couple of seconds to find his selected cover.

"You want to test that, sweetheart?" Harley said between laughs.

Oswald met Mr. J's eyes and, for a long moment, they stared at each other as Cobblepot assessed the sincerity of the threat. Finally, he nodded to himself and spoke, "I'll think your words over, Joker."

"You do that," Mr. J said, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out his signature Joker card. With casual ease, he tossed it on the table. "Leave a message when you've decided you need me."

He kicked the chair behind him out of the way and nodded to Harley, who waved with her fingers to everyone. "Ta ta!"

Together, they headed for the back door of the room. He caught Ana looking around the room with terrified eyes before she rushed to catch up. Girl probably figured the lesser of two evils. Outside in the alley, the car was waiting, Doc behind the wheel. He moved to the passenger's side, sliding in. Harley pushed Ana into the back with her and the car took off. As they rounded the corner out of the alley, Mr. J listed to the symphony of the sirens. Fire trucks closing in on the newly cratered building next to the Iceberg Lounge. An evening to remember. Casually, he tossed the detonator out the window, letting fate decide if the newly crowned Cobblepot would live or die as the device hit the ground. Two seconds later, nothing happened and he grinned in anticipation. Oswald Cobblepot would live to see another day.

Glancing back, he watched Harley settle in next to Ana, whose frightened face had morphed into a wide smile, adrenalin speeding through her system. "Oh my god, that was so awesome! Did you see the looks on their faces?"

"Just don't get the appeal," Harley muttered to Mr. J, quietly. Murder was in her eyes.

Ana continued ranting on, not even hearing her. "I mean I was totally scared when they pointed their guns at us and when that explosion happened, but then you were all like, 'ha, that was to the other building.' So cool!" She was behind Mr. J's seat and she clapped him on the shoulder like an old friend. "I always thought you'd be amazing to meet but this is, like, the best night ever."

Harley and Mr. J exchanged a look and he inclined his head towards her, giving her silent permission. A wild smile crossed her face as she grabbed Ana by the side of the neck and slammed her head into the door frame. The girl cried out in pain as Harley gracefully slid over her body, straddling her and peering down at the beautiful mess she had made. Mr. J turned further to watch her work, Harley's body blocking much of the view. As if reading his mind, Harley shoved the girl sideways, her body limply sprawled across the back seat and adjusted her position to keep Ana secure between her legs. Mr. J looked on, unaffected by the actions. Ana was a mere thought, to see how she would react to their lifestyle. But her post-job chatter was too annoying. If Harley had been anything like that, he would have put her down ages ago.

Ana was struggling against Harley, pushing at her body, trying to force her off. But his girl was far too strong to be knocked away by a useless, weak sheep. Using one hand to grasp the tiny woman's wrists, Harley slipped the other into her coat pocket, pulling out a knife. Ana froze in her fight immediately, terror taking her.

"Please don't kill me," she begged.

"Oh, honey, I'm not planning to kill you," Harley said, leaning down to press the knife against the girl's chest. "I'm just giving you the full experience."

"What?" Ana was confused, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes.

"You want to fuck Mr. J, don't you? I see that desire in your eyes." Ana was shaking her head wildly, denying the very obvious, which only made Harley smile more. "Don't worry, darling, I'm not jealous. I get it. He's the greatest man in all of Gotham." She leaned down, in a conspiratorial whisper. "And just between us girls, he can last for hours when he wants to."

"Please just let me go," Ana whined.

Mr. J could see the fire behind Harley's eyes. This was what she had been waiting for. It had been awhile since he allowed her to express herself to the fullest, to do as she willed without fear of reprisal. He admired the way she took pleasure from every gesture, every motion, drinking in the fear of her victims like an elixir. Ana's tears were only fueling Harley's need further and he found it stimulating. Harley leaned back up, trailing the knife down the front of the girl's shirt, her pupils dilating wide, like a predator, as she taunted her prey.

"But you really should know what you're signing up for with him. It's not just hugs and kisses, my dear." With that, she pulled the blade back a couple of inches before plunging it into Ana's shoulder. Shallow, but painful.

Piercing screams filled the car and Doc almost veered off the road in surprise. "New upholstery!" He wailed in dismay.

"Hush Doc, mama's working," Harley said, pulling the knife out and bringing it down to Ana's stomach. Her focus would not be shaken. "That's only a small taste. Want some more?"

"NO!" Ana's panicked cries were like ambrosia, the smell of her blood filling the air as acutely as Doc's cigarettes.

"Oh, I think you do." Harley's grin became inhuman, every motion of her lips exaggerated. "Mr. J carved something very special into me when we were fucking, once. I think it'd look even better on you."

This was her element, doing what she did best. Visceral and primal, Harley didn't even resemble the woman he first met. Mr. J watched every moment with twisted glee as she continued her work on Ana. It wasn't about the torture, as she carved the word "MINE" into the girl's stomach. It was about giving in to instinct. She wanted it, and she took it. It was the deepest part of her, perhaps not the oldest, but it ruled her like nothing else. The only thing that could conquer that need was Mr. J, himself. And as Ana whimpered below her, Harley looked up at him, her makeup smeared from sweat, her eyes both lustful and filled with rage. She wiped a gloved hand over her neck, blood staining her skin and clothing, and stared at him, wanting to share the moment with the man she loved.

Harley was a work of art. His work of art. The one truly beautiful thing he had created.

Mr. J jerked back suddenly in surprise. He turned in his seat, ignoring the slaughter behind him, mulling over what just happened. It wasn't about the thoughts he just had, no. He'd had them before about Harley. Something more. Something deeper, within him. He had felt his heart race, his breath pull in, and a twinge in his stomach. A tiny spark emotion had crawled its way inside of him for a moment. Just one moment. Which emotion, he didn't know. It was foreign. Like a virus twitching inside, wanting to curl up and make him sick. He had the unexpected urge to do some violence, to overwhelm himself with such vile acts that his mind would forget that split second of feeling. It could never happen again. Mr. J would not lose his edge.

It was her. Harley. She did this. Everything she did created that spark. It would not ignite. It would not become anything. The concept of that emotion was repulsive and it was weakness, pointless. She would not become that to him. His eyes narrowed, his lips turning down into a deep frown. Outside, the landscape of Gotham was flying by rapidly. And as the screams reached a crescendo in the back, Mr. J only had one thought.

Harley Quinn had to die.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you all enjoy the first full chapter in this story. There were a lot of elements to this chapter so I truly hope it wasn't all confusing. Please let me know if it is. There are some references here to previous stories, as always, so if you haven't, I recommend reading my first two stories: Repression and Corruption. **

**As always, thanks for reading and any questions, comments, or feedback, leave a review!**


	3. Ritual and Mystery

Chapter Two: Ritual and Mystery

Rituals were the foundation of the world. Since the ancient times, people fell into a routine that held significance to them, whether it be burying the dead, worshipping the gods, or the cycles of hunter and prey. It was quite beautiful, really, to think that such things had occurred for so many years. It was primal and yet the same rituals existed in the modern day. Archeologists had made significant discoveries as to the rituals of the ancestors, speculation only, but it connected the past to the future with similarities. Humans thrived on ritual. Even the chaotic humans.

For Harley, her ritual was something that brought calm to her raging emotions, bearing reverence and respect to her own personal savior. She never believed in God or religion but she believed in Mr. J with all her heart and soul. It seemed right to pay him homage, her golden idol, a middle finger to those that dared condemn her for being herself, claiming her to be evil. Harley scorned their simplicity, crying out to their god for their misfortune. Evil didn't truly exist. It was a concept devised by humans to explain all the bad shit that happened, or to sneer at their neighbors for being different.

One look at the world would reveal how idiotic the notions of good and evil were. Everyone and everything was gray. The necessity of hunger or survival could turn the most pious person into a killer. Animals didn't kill only for food. One look at a cat playing with a trapped mouse showed their cruelty. But the worst offenders were the hypocrites. Those that were viewed as righteous and yet, would fuck their neighbor's wife, steal from their employees, or have one mad day. Harvey Dent was the perfect example of this. His soul was revealed to be as gray as the rest of the lot. The white knight of Gotham. All it took was one accident. One loss in his life. And he was gone, pulled into the abyss of darkness. He wasn't evil. He wasn't good. Dent was simply just like everyone else.

"Harvey Dent Day," Mr. J muttered.

Harley looked up from her ritual in surprise, nearly dropping the object in her hands. Was he reading her mind again? No, it was a case of coincidence, she noted. Mr. J's eyes were fixed on the television, the usual background noise of GCN capturing his attention, not even so much as a glance towards her naked body. She stopped to watch the TV for a moment, getting the gist immediately. The mayor was continuing the city's worship of Harvey Dent. It had been nearly two years since the former district attorney tried to kill Jim Gordon's family and died in the ensuing battle that had Gotham calling for the Batman's head. The Dent Act was only a couple of days away from being signed into law, yet another result of the recent mafia violence due to Mr. J's plotting, and now it seemed the mayor wanted to commemorate Dent's death with an official city holiday. What a joke.

"Do you think that legislation would have even been considered if I didn't take out all those mafia heads?" Harley asked in an attempt to make conversation. "Is this our fault?"

Mr. J didn't look away from the television, sitting on the bed enraptured by the glowing images. "They were looking for an excuse." His makeup was still caked on his face, smeared from the night's events. Tiny speckles of blood lined the corners of his chin and neck, the last stain of Ana's existence. Harley had washed away her own evidence in the shower, dancing as the swirl of brown circled the drain. Even now, her wet blond locks still clung to her back, drops of water trickling down her nude body.

"Did you know this would happen?" Harley continued with her work, the motions bringing peace to her mind as she moved around their bedroom, careful not to block Mr. J's view of the TV. His green vest was in her hands and she brought it up to her nose, sniffing it. His scent filled her nostrils, sharp and smoky, but not foul. It didn't need to be cleaned yet. With a smile, she walked over to the closet and hung it next to his pale blue suit coat, making sure to run her hands down both sides to smooth out any wrinkles. Perfect.

Ritual. It had become rote to her in the past couple of months, ever since she returned after her crisis of faith. Her friend, Thomas Elliot, for all his flaws, had set her to her purpose. She found renewal after her time with him, coming back to Mr. J with true understanding of how the world turned. Before, it was all rhetoric. Now, she believed. It may have all been part of Mr. J's elaborate manipulation, but it worked for her nonetheless. And from that day forward, she needed a way to express that gratitude, even if it was unnoticed or unappreciated. Harley didn't do it for Mr. J. She did it for herself.

On the floor near the door, crumpled, was his purple trench coat. With loving care, she picked it up, noting the traces of her greasepaint along its shoulder. Folding it over her bare arms, she walked into the bathroom, turning on the faucet. After running a washcloth through the water and squeezing out the excess, she spread soap over the surface of the coat. And with careful swipes, she began the work of cleaning the coat, her mind shutting all other thoughts off. Her ritual.

"It was inevitable," Mr. J spoke, after a long pause. "Gotham's people need hope."

She didn't respond right away, her mind blank as she let the beauty of her ritual take control of her senses. Streaks of greasepaint stripped away from the purple material, leaving white stains on the washcloth. Caressing, careful, diligent, she watch as the soap peeled away the makeup. And a few moments later, satisfied with the blank slate of purple left behind, she shut off the water and took the trench coat over to the closet.

"Rather sentimental for you," she said, hanging the symbol of his greatness next to her own coat. The two pieces of clothing were a strange combination, colors so different, and yet they seemed to be a matching pair. Purple next to her black, red, and white. They belonged together. As she did before with the vest, she ran her hands down the sides of the coat, smoothing it out. Her hands only stopped at the pockets to remove the blades he kept inside, placing them gently on the dresser next to the television, before continuing their journey down the material's length.

"Sentimental, no, no, no," he said. "Hope is a good thing for us. Let the hope build, then shatter it."

Harley crossed back to the bathroom. "You tried that before. It was twisted around by the police and the people of Gotham never saw the truth of the ugliness."

"If at first you don't succeed..." Mr. J's eyes moved toward her.

She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a fresh, unsoiled washcloth. "You're not one for clichés, Mr. J." More water and soap. "Besides, Dent's dead and we failed at getting Gordon and family to admit what really happened. And instead of the chaos we wanted when we killed the mafia, we wound up with an even tighter leash, more strict order. Let's face it. Our only success has been killing people and blowing up buildings, which," she shrugged, "I suppose, that's something. But not one person, besides me, has seen the truth, yet."

With the washcloth in hand, she headed to the bed, expecting to see anger in his eyes at pointing out their shortcomings. But there was nothing but his usual dark stare boring into her. "Harley, Harley, Harley, you don't look at the big picture."

"Am I missing something?" she asked, sitting down next to him. Bringing the soapy cloth up to his face, she ran it along the contours of his skin, wiping away the greasepaint with easy strokes.

His hand reached up to grasp her wrist, stopping her mid-motion to grab her attention. "Think about it."

Then he released her hand, much to her surprise, continuing to allow her the privilege of washing his face. It was a rare occasion that she could do it freely. Usually, he'd smack her hand away with a glare and take care of it himself, if he felt like it. The days were gone that she'd admonish him for sleeping with the makeup on. She was indifferent to the smears of greasepaint on both of their pillows. But those moments when he'd let her touch him in such a way without reproach, they were heaven. Closing his eyes to wipe away the dark stains on his lids. Unable to get every bit of makeup, his newly opened eyes would be rimmed in thin black lines, a searing menace looking darkly back at her.

Mr. J said to think about the big picture but Harley didn't want to. She wanted to sink into her ritual, let her mind disappear into that space where nothing mattered. Where she wasn't constantly at war with herself. Sure, with Mr. J, her emotions were better controlled, his influence able to contain her ravaging needs. But there were still moments when the beast inside raged, screaming to be let loose and give in to all her wicked thoughts. Moments like this one allowed her to forget, to not be ruled by both the mental and physical scars. So, she stayed silent, letting him believe that she was deep in thought, while she was actually a blank slate. Tabula Rasa.

When the last of the makeup and blood was cleared away, she pulled the tie from around his neck, folding it and putting it on the nightstand. He was still wearing the rest of the outfit but she knew better than to try and strip him. He didn't like that. She didn't mind waiting until morning, as she could already smell the pungent odor that indicated the shirt needed to be thrown in the washer. And the pants had splotches of greasepaint on one of the legs. They would need more than hand-washing. Mr. J didn't care about the state of his clothing but she believed he was secretly grateful for the care she took with him. She was finished for the night and that made her feel better.

Tossing the washcloth over Mr. J's head into the bathroom where it landed with a splat, she laid back in her usual spot on the bed, hands behind her wet head. Glancing over at Mr. J, she was surprised to discover he was staring at her, scanning her nude form up and down. "What?" she asked.

"Which of your scars is your favorite, Harley?" he asked.

The question made her uneasy for some reason. There was a dark connotation behind it. But he didn't have the look of murder behind his eyes, so she let it go. "You know I don't pick favorites. They all stand out in their own way."

"Oh, but I know you have a favorite." One of his cold fingers traced the thin-lined scars under her breast. "One that stands above the rest."

Enjoying the feel of his touch, she sighed in contentment. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because this," his fingers moved down to the carved word on her stomach, "says you belong to me."

Harley glanced down to his hand, seeing his fingers splayed across the scars there. The word "MINE" was etched into her skin, a reminder of the night that she tried to take dominance from him. She had a matching scar on her back, another word, another horror. The memory of that night terrified her more than she'd ever admit out loud. At the time, she'd thought he was going to kill her. End the dance. But that wasn't why she was afraid. Every relationship had its end and she'd resigned herself long ago to the fact that Mr. J would be the one to kill her. Death was nothing. Living was the hard part. Living with someone who could take her weakness and bend it to his will, that was scary. The scars didn't matter. Pain didn't matter. Her life didn't matter. But what did matter to her was that one weakness. He knew how to truly hurt her like no one could. That night, he proved it, pushing her to the edge. Harley suspected that the scars left from that night were his personal favorites.

Her eyes told him of that fear as he dug his nails into her stomach, watching her reaction. "Not these then. So which?"

"It isn't important," she said, rolling onto her side, her back to him. "This is stupid."

Mr. J's hand gripped her shoulder, harshly, yanking her onto her back again. His lithe limbs moved quick as a snake as he straddled her, peering down into her face. "I asked you a question, Harley. You know I don't like evasion."

The fabric of his pants rubbed against her bare thighs in a delicious way. She quirked an eyebrow up at him, a devilish smile crossing her lips. "If I answer, will you have your way with me?"

He leaned down, his lips a hairsbreadth away from hers. "When don't I?"

She tried to close the short distance between them, wanting to feel his passion, but he pulled back anticipating her movement, a dark grin spreading over his lips. And patiently, he waited. Truthfully, she had never thought about it until now. But she should have expected the question at some point. Mr. J always seemed to have random thoughts that threw her for a loop.

After a few moments of pondering, she answered. "This one." She ran her fingers over the scar that circled her neck. "It was the beginning of my life."

The scar was self-inflicted, the result of her late college boyfriend's experimentation on her. To find the true instinctual id in an adult. She was too naïve to know better and let Guy do whatever he wanted to her, which led to his downfall and her craving for pain. He used her and enjoyed it, causing her body to mix signals and pain became ecstasy. Like Mr. J, he pushed her beyond her limits, causing her to cut her own throat in an attempt to seek the peak of pleasure. It was, perhaps, the greatest moment of her life. Unlike Mr. J, Guy couldn't handle the creature she became after, and he took his own life. She'd come to terms with that guilt during the past year, but she could never forget the man who made her.

"I thought so," Mr. J said, moving her hand aside to stroke her neck with his fingers.

She let out a frustrated grunt. "Then why did you ask if you already knew?"

"Had to see if you were lying to yourself." His fingers began to tighten around her throat. "It suits you, Harley. Always back to the beginning for you."

The dynamic in the room changed into something more predatory and sexually charged, as he squeezed her neck tightly, cutting off her air along with her sarcastic response. The corners of her lips turned up, giving herself into the moment. She always felt more alive when he choked her, life fading slowly. And as she had done many times in the past, she forced herself to go limp, allowing him the freedom to do with her body as he pleased. He wouldn't kill her. He would take her to the brink of death and let her ride the high as oxygen filled her lungs. It was one of the best sensations in the world. And something about the action of holding her life in his hands turned Mr. J on. She could feel his erection growing against her thigh as he leaned forward, placing more pressure against her throat.

Her vision began to swim, growing darker around the edges. A sign that she was close to passing out. The second sign came quickly as the hunger for oxygen filled her, and the sounds in the room muted out his heavy breathing. Most people at this stage would jerk around, fighting for their lives, bodies panicking. Hands on wrists, pulling, silently screaming. She had no screams but for her pleasure. And his. Heart beating loudly inside her eardrums. She was close to that dangerous edge.

He would see her reactions and stop, letting her get the air to live. He would see. He always saw. But as she gazed up at him through pinprick vision, she knew his look. The same look he gave her when he carved the "MINE" into her body. Death danced in his eyes. The hunger for murder. He was no longer playing around with her as she initially thought. He added a second hand to the mix, switching his grip, to highlight that this was real. He wanted to see her lifeless body before him.

How could she have missed it? Was that look there when he started choking her or did it just come on all of a sudden? The thoughts raced through her head at lightning speed as she attempted to force her weak limbs to fight. No reaction. There was nothing she could do to prevent it. Still, she always knew that their relationship would end as such. One of them would inevitably take out the other. Harley just always thought she would be the victor. And she couldn't blame him, really. Her last thoughts would not be to condemn him for doing something so raw, so natural. There was beauty to his actions that she could appreciate.

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. There was so much more left to do. To see. And what would Mr. J do without her? They worked in tandem and no one could ever replicate the rhythm they had attained. He needed someone by his side that understood him, that could keep his secrets. She knew so many, his hidden self that only she was privy to. Whispers in the dark. Now, he would walk alone and that grieved her beyond measure.

Mr. J leaned down, hot breath at her ear. The last words she'd ever hear, diminished by her aural muting. Still, she heard them. A reflection of her own thoughts. "You're one of a kind, Harley."

As she lost consciousness, Harley could only think about how much this sucked.

* * *

The length of time it took to strangle someone to death could vary between thirty seconds and fifteen minutes. It depended on strength, knowledge of the human body, and patience. With his original grip, his intention was asphyxiation. Pressure against the larynx, not enough to crush. With her submissive nature to him and him alone, she complied, no fight in her, no struggle. It made it easier. When he brought the second hand up, he debated impacting her larynx and causing the quick death. Slow, though, would allow him more time to appreciate those final moments and his fingers dug into her arteries, cutting off the blood to her brain as well. Death could be patient.

Final words. Were they appropriate? Eyes fluttered, closed. His Harley, so peaceful in the sleep before death. Wet hair kissed the backs of his fingers as she had often done with her lips. The tear that had leaked out of the corner of her eye slid down the side of her face. Harley, too emotional for her own good. Did she cry for herself in the end? Weeping for the destructive path she had followed as it finally reached its conclusion? Or was she feeling that guilt again? Crying for the victims that she would now join in death. Her eyes wouldn't hold the answers anymore and for some reason, that bothered him. Everything about her was too easy to see, now that he had pierced her veil. But in death, she held one final secret. One last surprise. And he found that he desperately wanted to know what it was.

Fate, it seemed, wanted him to know that secret, his cell phone jingling in his pocket, calling him away from the deed. Sooner than he expected. He released his grip on Harley, watching as her body fought to breathe in air, no longer constricted by his hands. It was an automatic reflex, one that didn't wake her but gave her more time to be amongst the living. As he pulled out his phone and clicked to answer, he tilted his head to regard her still form.

"What?"

Oswald Cobblepot's voice rang spoke clearly. "We have a deal. What do you want in return." More demands, not questions. He was used to command.

Mr. J climbed off Harley and got off the bed, his feet landing on the floor with a dull thud. "Oh, Ozzie. I'm getting what I want by doing this. But since you mob types don't like something for nothing, how about we call it a favor to be owed later."

There was a pause before Cobblepot answered, his voice betraying the suspicion of Mr. J's motives. "Fine. You get Falcone to join me and I'll owe you."

Mr. J ended the call. Point made and neither wanted to share the latest gossip. Standing, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to regard Harley once more. She was nexus of the plan. The one who would lure Falcone to the rest. As the man's former shrink, she could get inside his head and convince him of what needed to be done. And from word on the street, she was one of his favorites outside of the Falcone family. Mr. J still needed her and that infuriated him.

No, not because he needed her for the plan. But because she had pushed him into trying to kill her tonight. Stupid girl should have known better. Besides, the quiet death was not the way for Harley to go. She was a warrior and to die in her sleep like a senior was poor homage to her life of action. When she went out, the world had to be made aware. Blaze of glory and all that. He would need more time to prepare for a proper send off. But only after she did the job.

* * *

Confusion. Where was she? Harley blinked and looked around the dark, trying to figure out her location, her mind as groggy as her body. Her hands groped the bare air, her body chilled. She was naked. Panic nearly set in but she reminded herself to relax and think. She had been in this shadowy situation many times before. Waking up, not knowing where she was. Nothing new. After a few seconds, her mind began to clear and she recognized the shadows that were oh so threatening a moment ago. She was in their bedroom. Her head automatically turned to the side but there was no sign of Mr. J. Typical. He was always on the move.

And then she remembered. Sighing, partly in relief, partly in sorrow, Harley sat up. It had been a long time since she'd last been choked out, strangled, whatever he did. He must have cut the blood off to her brain in those final moments because she had felt no pain. And despite the murderous look in his eyes, he didn't kill her. Did she imagine it all? For a few minutes, she replayed those final moments over and over until she was sure it wasn't in her head. He was ready. And yet he didn't do it. Always the enigma. But she wasn't about to question her fortune. Besides, the mystery was what kept it all so exciting.

A cough racked her body, her throat dry. She needed something to drink and she'd be damned if she drank it out of the nasty bathroom tap. Even she had standards. Donning a red silk robe, Harley headed down the hallway, noting the second bedroom was open. Mr. J wasn't working, then. Just as well as she wasn't quite sure what his mood would be like after what just happened. When she reached the kitchen, she grabbed a soda from the fridge and chugged it, enjoying the gasping sensation that overtook her when she finally removed it from her mouth. Nothing like it in the world.

After grabbing a box of fruit snacks and another soda, she made her way to the living room where she found Doc lounging on the couch, eating from a bowl. Plopping down next to him, she poked him in the arm harshly. "Anything good on?"

"Infomercials," he responded with a wince, taking a bite from what seemed to be cereal.

She glanced to the clock to see it was just past four in the morning. "What are you doing up so late?" On a normal non-job night, everyone would be tucked in by now.

"Boss woke me up," Doc grumbled. "Said he needed me for something."

In the dim light of the television, she could see his upper body hunched over the bowl as he ate its contents slowly. Doc was built like a football player with his thick frame, taking up half the couch. He wasn't exactly fat. She'd seen him with his shirt off. He was just a large man, like a freight train. At times, he creeped her out. Not because he was as psychotic as her, in his own way, but because he had a sort of smarmy demeanor that reeked of insecurity and lies. He had the look of a high school date rapist when he grinned. That was, when he wasn't in a paranoid panic about something. Which was frequent with his schizoid condition.

"So," Harley said, casually. "Mr. J almost killed me tonight." She popped a fruit snack into her mouth.

Doc looked over at her, a smirk crossing his face. "What'd you do to provoke him?"

Chewing, she watched some guy on the TV demonstrate some kitchen appliance. "Nothing that I'm aware of."

Doc chuckled. "I'm sure your bright, shining presence alone was enough to set him off, Barbie." Sarcasm dripped from his words.

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean, Doc. I know when I've fucked up. I know when he's pissed at something I did. But this came out of nowhere. Like one second, everything's fine. The next second, bam, he's changed."

"I'm not certain how I gave you the impression that I give a fuck, but I don't." Another mouthful of cereal. He was more surly than usual.

A sniff of the air revealed the cause. "Bailey's in your cereal, eh, Doc?" She snorted, standing up. "Stay classy there, you alcoholic son of a bitch."

She turned on her heel and headed back to the stairs, vaguely registering Doc's retort of "Yeah, why don't you go back upstairs and spread your legs for the boss, useless whore."

"Fucker," she muttered under her breath as she climbed the stairs. Harley didn't really care what he thought about her. Besides crime and Mr. J, they had little in common. There was never any real rivalry or hatred between them, despite their cruel words to one another. They weren't friends, either. They simply tolerated each other like any family would. And in a way, it was quite comfortable. She didn't have to pretend around him. She could bare her scars and he would say nothing. He never stared at her with lust and quite frankly, the idea of boning Doc revolted her. The line of thought gave her an idea, though. If she ever needed a sexual de-motivator, such as baseball, she could just think of Doc. Reaching the bedroom, she found herself giggling quietly at the idea. It would piss him off something fierce, if he ever found out. She'd make sure to save that gem for later.

Turning on the TV, she made herself comfortable in the bed, pillows stacked up behind her, her robe pooled onto the floor. GNN was still covering the Dent Act and the possibility of a Harvey Dent Day. Pure speculation on the likeliness of the holiday being approved as the mayor's office had yet to release an official statement. But the Dent Act had been filtering through the news channels for some time, and Harley was quite aware of its potential impact on the city. Its focus was on stamping out organized crime in the name of its namesake champion. Parole denied to those associated with the mafia, stricter penalties for the same, and so on. There would be no Arkham for those criminals, no matter how crazy they acted. And it was unlikely they had another Jonathan Crane waiting to create bogus psychological assessments to send them there.

As she thought about the consequences of the Dent Act, an idea began to form in her head. But it was quickly dimmed by the slamming of the front door. The dull ache that had been throbbing, in a most pleasant way, around her throat was singing for her Mr. J. At the same time, she wasn't sure which side of Mr. J would be walking through the bedroom door. Would it be her salvation or her murderer? In a way, they were one and the same, bleeding over into each other. Bleeding onto her. She should have grabbed a weapon, just in case, but she reminded herself that he didn't kill her earlier. He'd stopped himself. She was safe.

Voices chittered downstairs before the boots climbed the stairs, ever so closer. When his clean face appeared in the doorway, Mr. J broke into a grin upon seeing her, a jovial merriment twinkling in his eyes. He was wearing the remnants of his costume from earlier. No blood, no ash. Same marks as earlier. Mundane travels, this time. "Ah, good. You're awake."

"No thanks to you," she said, rubbing her neck gently to emphasize that she knew what he'd tried. Their eyes met and his smile dropped.

"All thanks to me, Harley." He said, stepping into the bathroom. He didn't bother closing the door as he lifted the toilet seat and unzipped to do his business. "I left you alive. Don't get all melodramatic."

Harley knew better than to ask why he did it. She'd never get a straight answer and deep down, she didn't think she really wanted to know. Instead, she pursued another avenue that was more important. "What stopped you?"

The sound of water on water trickled for another few seconds before he tucked himself away and flushed. "You did."

She watched as he unbuttoned and stripped off his shirt, tossing it on the floor as he approached the bed. Her mind craved the ritual but her heart wouldn't be in it. It was strange. Despite his actions, she didn't feel betrayed. Actually, she had tried to kill him first so in a way, it evened the score. But the ritual would feel empty in the dark of the bedroom. The gratitude had faded for the evening. Perhaps tomorrow. She watched as the slacks followed suit and wearing just his boxers, Mr. J climbed into the bed.

"And how, in my unconscious state, did I manage to do that?" Harley asked, turning on her side to face him.

He settled into his usual position, his back against the mattress, eyes staring up at the ceiling. "As the walls closed in, what was your last thought?"

She didn't answer right away. He gave her the key, a rarity. She'd have to remember it for the future, should he lose control again. Something he saw in her eyes before she passed out had stopped his actions. Wilted away the inner blood lust. Harley thought about those last moments, the things that circled her mind before the black. It didn't take long to suss out what he was looking for. She pondered telling him the truth or at least a partial truth. But would that signal the end? She could lie, but he would know and that never ended well. So, she settled for something she didn't do often.

With a smile, she traced a nail down his bare chest. "A girl's got to have some secrets, Mr. J," Harley said, coyly, before turning away from him to close her eyes.

She could feel his anger at her elusive reply. Yet, he wouldn't push, not yet. It was all part of the dance. And Mr. J was ever so patient. He had said earlier that she went back to the beginning. And in the beginning of their love story, there was the mystery. She speculated that he missed all the questions, all the enigmas that surrounded her. Harley had become an open book to him but she was still able to tear out a page and slip it into her bra. Eventually, Mr. J would worm his way back under her skin to learn that secret. As he always did and always would do.

But for now, she couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at having the upper hand, even if it would only be for a short time.

* * *

**A/N: As I said, updates for this would be slower than my usual speed and this one took some time. I must have edited the last half ten times before deciding on an ending that I was happy with. Those who know me understand that I don't like to release material that I think is not my best. I'd rather wait a few extra weeks and perfect it, rather than put out something that isn't to my liking. **

**That being said, I hope you all enjoy. I had a request after the first chapter was released to write a timeline for the Exquisite Agony series as it can be confusing at times. If you're interested, send me a PM and I'll send it over to you. **

**Questions, comments, feedback? Leave a review! Cheers!**


	4. Like Old Times

Chapter Three: Like Old Times

Hands ran over her body, seeking, searching, peeling back her clothes to feel the lining. Harley had so often been insulted by lackluster goons who either didn't know how to do a proper body search or were simply aiming for a quick grope of her goods. This was a professional. Quick, efficient, and smart, even checking her hair for hidden weapons. Carmine had certainly beefed up his security detail since the last time she'd met with him. Paranoia had become his new mistress, and rightfully so. Everyone was truly out to get him.

The underground bar, which had once been the hot spot for the corrupt, was looking a little worse for wear. The stories said that the place was like a 20's speakeasy with girls and booze, everyone having a grand old time. But this night, it was practically empty. The downfall. A couple of off-duty cops sat at the bar. Falcone's men lined various booths. Even a familiar politician with some redhead floozy was gracing the corner. It wasn't dead. But it was close. Ghost town. Cobblepot had stolen Falcone's control of the city and his former payroll was moving on, feeling safer with the new king than the old. Perhaps tonight would be an easier sell than she thought.

Once the frisking was over, she was allowed to approach the man in charge. Carmine Falcone. He had changed quite a bit from the first time she met him. His Arkham reds had been replaced by a tailored white suit. Casual and welcoming. The ingrained frown on his face, however, wasn't as welcoming. From her experience in working with him, it was a permanent attachment to his face. It didn't concern her. No, what worried her was the tired look in his eyes. The exhaustion of the fallen. Even so, he was still miles away from the terrified man who once graced her office whispering the word "Scarecrow" over and over.

Harley waited until he extended a hand for her to sit. Sliding into the chair, she crossed her legs and inclined her head to him. "Hello again, Carmine. You look well."

"And you're not looking so good, Doctor Quinzel," Carmine said, waving a hand towards her throat where the bruises from Mr. J's rough treatment were visible over the top of her turtleneck. "So, what warrants a personal visit from you tonight?"

This was part of the reason she liked Carmine Falcone. He was direct and didn't waste time on silly small talk. Right to business. At times, he reminded her of her father with the lack of bullshit and the stern way he talked to anyone around him. Even had similar voices and vocal inflection. But, unlike her dear daddy, Carmine could take it to the edge. He'd look someone in the eye, tell them they were about to die, and then go back to drinking his scotch as if he didn't just sign someone's death certificate. And while Mr. J had made no bones about his hatred for all the mafia of Gotham, bringing Harley into his same line of thinking, she couldn't help but admire Falcone. She made a private promise to keep him alive if she could.

Harley didn't bother correcting his use of her former title. Carmine knew she was no longer a doctor, but his addressing her as such was a sign of respect and she didn't want to lose what little influence she had over the man. "The mister and I had a nice to-do with the new kingpin of the city. Wanted to get your take on him."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Falcone said with a gruff chuckle. "You and your boyfriend got a lot of cojones, I'll give you. Wish I could have seen the look on the Penguin's face when you blew up the building next door." He raised his glass to her, before downing it. A salute. "Well played, if stupid."

"The Penguin?" she asked.

"That's what the boys call Cobblepot," he answered. "Short, fat, and wears a tux."

"Just add some red all over and you've got the perfect punch line," she grinned, leaning back in her chair to seem at ease. "Or is that a nun? I can never remember that joke."

Carmine gave her a brief look. The one she had grown accustomed to and started to love. The one that questioned her sanity. Normally, she'd play to that strength, give a wild grin, maybe say something completely irrational. Tonight, though, she needed to play it cool and keep his confidence in her. A quick gesture of her hand to wipe away what she just said. "Nevermind. Doesn't matter." And back the original subject at hand. "So, what are your thoughts on Cobblepot?"

His expression changed, as if he was weighing whether or not to speak his mind. To encourage his forthrightness, Harley folded her hands over her crossed knee. It was a gesture she had used a lot in her therapy sessions and it gave her patients the sense that she was an open listener. She wouldn't judge. Every shrink had their tricks and this was one of hers. Only person it didn't work on was Mr. J who saw through her pathetic attempts. But Carmine was susceptible. His mind made the subconscious connection and opened up to her again, like the days of yore.

"It's no secret that he's trying to run me out of my own town," he said. "It's insulting, doc. I know the word is that the other families took over when I was at Arkham, but that's a lie. My guys were out there running the show. They just weren't as good at keeping it solid and god knows Alberto's been a disappointment." Referring to his son and heir. "And now we got this new small time player in town with all these mysterious contacts. No, Cobblepot's been working his way up to this. And then all the heads of the other families die? I don't believe in coincidence."

Harley quirked an eyebrow. "You think he killed them, or rather, had them killed?" She maintained her composure despite the dark laughter in her head, remembering the screams and terrified looks of the dead mob leaders as she slaughtered them one by one.

"I'm not an idiot and I'm sure the new bosses of the other families aren't either." He waved a hand to the bartender to get a refill on his drink. "But they're green. They've watched from the sidelines never expecting to be in charge so quick. They might guess that Cobblepot's the hitter but they don't want the violence again and he's done a good job of shoring up the holes left when I was away. Man's all charisma. Could talk the panties off a Catholic school girl."

"Doesn't work on you, though," Harley commented. Time to work the plan. "How did he do it? How did he convince them to lay down arms and stop the war?"

A pretty waitress stopped by the table and put a drink in front of Falcone. He lifted it, looking at its contents. "You think the mayor or the politicians came up with the Dent act on their own?"

"Hold up," she said, raising a hand as if to pause the conversation and talk it through aloud. "You're saying that Cobblepot had all the major mafia heads killed, except for you, then once the expected violence happened with the finger pointing, that he put a bug in the ear of some politician to get the Dent Act broached? Using that future state as leverage, he was able to convince the families to lay down arms against each other and create a vast empire, one that any arrests under the Dent Act would mean nothing to." She let out a breath of admiration. "Clever."

All the while as she spoke, the wheels inside her head were turning. Mr. J was a planner, regardless of anything he said. He had told her that the assassination of the mafia heads was something to create chaos on the streets but he always seemed to be one step ahead of the curve. He might have seen this end game. What if he had designed this entire thing, somehow knowing about Cobblepot's ambitions and exploited them? He had a network of followers that could pass ideas along to the right ears. But then, if Mr. J wanted Cobblepot in position to take over the mafia, what was the goal? It felt like she was the middle of a long con where she was the mark. Then again, she might be on the wrong track. There were too many possibilities.

Carmine's lips turned up into a small smile before sipping his drink. "You've still got one hell of a mind," he said. "Always figuring things out."

"Contrary to public opinion, I haven't actually lost my mind. It just likes to take a backseat to the crazy every now and again." Nuthouse humor. She figured Carmine would appreciate it.

And he did, with a low chuckle. "Honestly, never thought I'd see you on this side of the law."

"You may have had me vetted, but there's a lot you don't know about me," Harley said. "Besides, hard to keep my hands clean when I'm in love with the country's biggest terrorist."

"He doesn't seem to treat you well." His eyes landed on the bruises on her throat again. "You say the word and he'll be a grease stain. I'll set you up with someone who will treat you like the lady you are."

It took Harley a long time to understand Falcone's fondness for her. There was always a bond between psychiatrist and patient, especially when the doctor had been successful in healing the patient's mind as she had been. But for him, it was something stronger than usual. Not a form of transference. Nor was it about the trust he gave her when he spoke of his personal life and family. No, he had seen something in her. Something familiar and treasured. And when piecing together the bits of his life from their sessions, she was able to make the link.

Sophia Falcone, his lovely but scarred daughter. She had been the victim of her father's work, grabbed by rivals and set on fire in retaliation. Likely raped as well. Brutal, horrific, and all about their own greed. Brutality was fine for its own sake but for money? Harley detested it. Poor Sofia had been through so much and had shut herself down, a shell of a woman she had once been. She went through the motions but didn't have a real life anymore. Carmine was helpless to relate to his own daughter but somehow, he sensed that same sort of spirit in Harley despite the fact that the two women were very different. Harley had chosen her shell. Sofia had no choice. And the former doctor supposed that talking out his feelings with her was akin to being able to communicate with his daughter again. It spoke volumes as to how familiar bonds could affect the world.

There were many ways to address his good intentions but Harley stuck with the easiest. "Thank you, but no. I'm happy where I am." And the lead in. "But are you happy where you are? Right now, you're in a losing battle. Cobblepot's got the men, the influence, and the money to remove you permanently from the game. I know you don't want that, and I certainly don't want it. I like you. And I want to help."

Another sip from his drink. "How?"

The big sell. The plan. She was the barker at the carnival, letting loose Mr. J's words without an inkling as to what the end game was. Likely, this was only one of many scenarios playing out and he had other options if she failed. If he didn't, she'd be sorely disappointed with him. She would speak the words because this was what Mr. J wanted and she had to be the one to do it. Falcone would spit on anything the psychotic clown had to say. But not Dr. Quinzel, his respected confident. She knew more about the mob boss than anyone else. It could eventually get her killed if she didn't play her cards right, but she felt like she had a decent grasp on Falcone's mental state, at least in regards to his thoughts on her.

"How would you like to take Cobblepot's place? Run the empire?" She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "We can make that happen."

"After what he did last time, no one sane would want to work with your boyfriend. He's lucky we've been too busy to go after him."

"You wouldn't be working with him. You don't even need to talk to him. You'd be working with me, Carmine." She took the drink that sat in front of him, taking a small sip to show unity. "It may be his plan but I believe in it and I'll be your contact. The mob is a necessary part of Gotham's infrastructure. We both understand this. And I'd rather have someone with a proven record running things than this unknown."

"The devil you know," Carmine said, extracting the drink from her hand. "Listen, doc, I like you. You've been good to me and I don't mind doing you a favor every now and again, but I'm not going to ruin my reputation by getting into bed with the man that screwed over most of the families in the city. I'm not that desperate."

"Cobblepot will kill you, Carmine," Harley began, trying to play on his survival instincts, but she could see by the look on his face that this was the wrong track to take. She stopped herself and began again. "No, you're right. It would kill your reputation to work with my guy. I know how important that is to you."

"You always get it, doc."

"I do. So, what if we make sure no one finds out about our involvement?" Harley decided this was the best course. Carmine would never agree to an open relationship, but something discreet he might consider. "You don't even need to commit any resources or money towards this. It's all us. Beyond tonight, we don't have to meet if you don't want to. But there is one thing that you are required to do for this to work."

"And what's that?" Carmine was barely entertaining the idea and he was looking for the quickest exit without being disrespectful to her. She was about to give it to him.

"You need to accept Cobblepot's offer to join his organization." Harley kept her face calm and professional.

Carmine's face turned slightly red. "Forget it. I am not bowing down to that-" he said some word she didn't know, maybe in Italian. But the gist was clear. "This isn't going to happen. Thanks for the visit." He began to stand.

"Just hear me out," Harley raised a hand in request for him to stop. She could already see his bodyguard moving her direction from the corner of her eye and looked up at Falcone with desperation in her eyes. "Please Carmine."

With a sigh, he sat back down. "Always was a sucker for blue eyes."

"Thank you," she said with sincerity. "Let me finish the proposal before you completely shoot it down." With his nod, she continued. "It's all about play-acting. From Cobblepot's standpoint, you're still strong and he's not wrong. You have a lot of sway that he doesn't yet have control over and probably never will. If he kills you, then he loses all that potential influence over the city because your people will scatter as if they were never on the take at all. So he wants you on his side."

"Not telling me anything I don't know," he said.

"Then let me make the point clear. Cobblepot's done a great job in organizing. You get in cozy, get yourself into the prime number two position, and then we pop him like a balloon. Then it's a dawn of a new era in Gotham with Carmine Falcone not only running his own family but all the families." Harley leaned back. "And I want to stress this point. If you do this, we are handing you victory on a platter. We will make sure you have the strength and backing to take over, and we will take care of his assassination. Most importantly, no one will ever know we were involved."

Honestly, Harley had no idea if anything she was saying was even true. She wasn't privy to Mr. J's plot and like the puppet she had once feared becoming, she spoke the lines fed to her. Harley's talent was in making her words believable. It had worked on countless others before, including Bruce Wayne. Carmine was no different. He seemed thoughtful. Her speech was having an impact.

"Dr. Quinzel, I trust you to your word, but I don't trust your boyfriend. And I sure as hell don't want to kneel down before Cobblepot."

She smiled. "If you did, I'm pretty sure he'd know something was up. Like everyone else, he knows you don't like him and if you had a complete one-eighty, it'd look bad. This is about being yourself. Considering proposals. You're a business man. And while I understand that you value your pride, sometimes it's best to swallow it for the greater good. You'll come out on top, I promise you." Another lean forward from her as she continued. "As for my guy, I get it. He did some fucked up things to the other families. But never to yours. Never touched your people once. He sees where the best bet lies and that's you, Carmine. Why do you think he wanted me to come here?"

"Alright, here's the deal," Carmine said, leaning forward to match her stance. "I've been shot at a lot more frequently than usual and at locations that my enemies shouldn't know about."

"So, you have a leak."

"Find the leak, discreetly, bring them to me, and we'll talk again." He stood up.

Harley followed suit, rising along with the mobster. A challenge given to prove their skills. There were good odds that Mr. J already had the knowledge of who was the traitor in Falcone's organization. Probably been sending information their way as well to throw in some entertainment. The good news was that it wasn't a firm no to their plan. Carmine was considering it, otherwise he wouldn't have given her this scrap. And anyone who was weighing something this heavy could be convinced to say yes. The meeting was a success in her book.

No shaking of hands, no hug. This was business at its core. As she turned, she glanced around the bar one last time. The politician she'd recognized was wheezing in his booth, hands under his ribcage as if trying to push the air into his lungs. She'd seen a serious asthma attack a few times but his reaction was too intense. Heart problems, the most likely culprit. Face turning shades of purple, sweat pouring from his body. Not a pretty sight. Probably scared off his pretty arm candy.

Her head tilted sideways to regard Carmine. "Doubt it's the heart attack victim over there." She chucked a thumb toward the politician. "I'll be in touch when I have something."

The troops were gathering to help the dying man as she swept through the room towards the door. Maybe he'd live, maybe he'd die. His fate was inconsequential. As much as she wanted to hang around and start questioning some of Carmine's people, it was best to report back to Mr. J first. He would have a next step in mind and she didn't feel like dealing with his psychotic fury if she began her own investigation. Certainly, she could take his wrath but tonight, she wasn't in the mood to invoke it.

Outside the doors, the stench of true poverty was evident. Wafts of dead fish from the river, urine soaked porches, and body odor. The bar area was clean; too many rich clients to placate, but the dreary street held too much pain and misery, soaked into the very foundations of the pavement. Many dangerous lowlifes came crawling to this stretch of underpass, a place to sleep that was dry. Though Falcone's bar was technically in the heart of downtown, it was located underneath, tucked off a side road that eventually climbed up to the bright lights of the prime city. Good pickings for the scum of Gotham if anyone who didn't belong dared to travel down too far. It felt like home to Harley. Lunatics, homeless, and criminals. This was the sort of haunt she'd dig into back in her past, when she had first become the perpetual chaotic id. She could hurt, fuck, kill anyone and there would be no consequences. The only difference at Falcone's property was that people had to answer to him for all violence nearby. But his control was waning and the attempts were growing bolder, even on Falcone's own people.

This much became clear after she rounded the corner into an alley, her car parked on the next street over in this hazardous underground. Two men, one a scraggly blonde, the other, a thicker brunette, stood from their crouched positions as she strolled near them, noting a defenseless woman had come their way, goof for quick cash or some fresh pussy. Easy target, they would assume. Harley rolled her eyes at the obvious cliché scenario playing out. Were they about to taunt her in a standard movie-villain style? As she opened her arms to show she was unarmed, she realized, with surprise, that she wasn't really in the mood for violence. But with her emotions, that would likely change in a moment.

"Listen boys," she addressed them, allowing them to surround her, knives appearing in their hands. "It's been a long day and I don't feel like fighting."

"Better for us, then." The scruffy blonde had placed himself in front of her, sneering, the sexual implications clear. The brunette man, planted behind her, lifted a strand of her hair as if to inspect it. A typical intimidation move that worked on the weak minded. Instead, it just pissed her off.

Her face grew hard, cold. Her eyes blazed into the shadow of the blonde man's conveying the wild beast that lurked behind her façade. She could feel the other one at her backside, grasping her arms to restrain her. "I'm unarmed and outnumbered but use your fucking lump of a head and look closer at this situation. I'm not crying, not screaming, not running. You should really ask yourself why."

The grip on her arms tightened in warning for her attitude and the blonde stepped closer to her, placing the tip on his knife against her cheek with a barked laugh, his breath stinking of sour milk and shit. "Oh and why's that, chickie?"

"Because I'm Harley Quinn," she said, her wicked energy bursting inside as she jerked her head back an inch before smashing her forehead into his face. A head-butt, not the best use in fighting as it could daze the attacker but the sound was a symphony of satisfaction, the crack of her skull as it collided into his nose. The knife pressed against her left cheek sliced into her, ecstatic agony piercing her core to join the rush of adrenalin from her initial movements.

Her arms fell slack, no longer held by the brunette. The sound of retreating footsteps followed by a shouted "Sorry!" That man was smart enough not to tangle with the Joker's girlfriend. And stupid enough to leave his friend in her sights. Then again, down here, friendship didn't exist. For a moment, she considered her next action, but she really didn't feel like pursuing him when there was such easy game in front of her, clutching a broken nose. The blonde's knife had dropped from his hand and now, he was nothing more than helpless prey to one such as her. The fire inside consumed, wanting blood, death, punishment. She was the apex predator here. Sliding her hands into her pocket, she pulled out her car keys. Improvised weapons were another of her specialties. Anything could create a beautiful mess. Before her, she noted the blonde had some fight left in him, his eyes blazing as crimson poured from his broken nose. He wanted a piece of the action, if only for payback. Men were so predictable. She was more than willing to entertain him.

"I was going to let you walk away but you awoke the sleeping dragon," she said, feeling the first streaks of blood trickle down her cheek. "I think I'm going to make your death last a little longer than usual." She reared back and then extended her leg forward to kick the man in the stomach, same way she would kick down a door.

The blow never landed. Her foot and ankle were caught by strong hands, preventing her from damaging the alley rat further. But her victim wasn't the one responsible. New hands, new body. The interloper said one word to the blonde, "Run."

Common sense hit the blonde. That or he figured his rescuer would be kicking her ass in his stead. Either way, he took off at a staggered run, exiting the alley quickly. The rage inside Harley intensified as she watched her fun for the evening escape. She was going to make this trespasser pay. Her eyes turned up to the intruder, moving her keys in position to go for the throat, but she stopped mid-motion as she recognized the face of someone she would never forget.

"Hello, Harley," Thomas Elliot said, his hands gently squeezing her ankle in greeting before releasing her leg. "Trouble always seems to find you."

A myriad of emotions ran through her, from joy to anger to sorrow to hatred. Her relationship with the Gotham Memorial surgeon was complicated, to say the least. Thomas was one of the few men who knew her history, her story, and he accepted her for who she was. Years ago, they had attended the same medical school, and between the classes and the internship, they formed a bond. But he never knew the real Harleen Quinzel, and apparently she never knew the real Thomas Elliot either. She was repressed back in those days, locked up inside a tightly wound frame of control, too terrified to let the monster loose. As time passed, they moved on, their lives separate, until she was invited to the Wayne Manor housewarming. Fancy event with all the wealthy sycophants to celebrate the rebuilding of the Gotham landmark. Thomas, being from one of the wealthiest families in the city, was in attendance and they found a chance to catch up.

It wasn't until after she joined Mr. J that all illusion of pretense was shattered. One night, after an extremely entertaining and dangerous job, she woke up to find herself inside Thomas' home with a bullet in her gut. Mr. J had brought her to the one man that wouldn't betray her to the police and who would also care for her while she recovered. The short stay rekindled their friendship and revealed the depths that had lurked beneath their walls. She learned that he was a killer, like her, murdering his own parents. He learned of her darkness. And each recognized a piece of themselves in the other.

During her time with Thomas, he helped her through the struggle of finding herself. To decide on whether she could truly be with Mr. J. Thomas held her when she cried, witnessed the horrors she was capable of, and made her feel all the aspects of her humanity. Harley had a hard time forgiving him for that last part. He made her weak, frail, and question her love for Mr. J. But he also made her strong, independent, and inadvertently taught her how the world truly worked when she discovered his deception. It was such a shame to discover that everything, from the bullet to his understanding nature, was nothing but a sham. A ploy to get back at Mr. J for some perceived slight. She loved Thomas dearly. And while their friendship may have been true and real, she could never fully trust him again.

Slipping the car keys into her pocket, Harley took a moment to gather her thoughts, breathing deep, as she stared at him. Though there was little light, she could see the blue in his eyes and the twinkle that said he was glad to see her. It had been a few months since they last parted, fairly amicable considering she didn't kill him for his betrayal. But all the emotions that he caused in her came bubbling back to the surface as if his deception occurred only yesterday. There was no leash around her neck from Mr. J, no voice telling her how to proceed. Instinct took over and her rage became her focus.

She snarled at him, a scream erupting from her throat, a feral sound. Her fist snapped back, striking out with furious force. But Thomas was too quick, and having caught sight of her enraged visage, he caught her hand before it could land. Harley was never much of a physical fighter. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in sheer enthusiasm and daredevilry. In a real fight, though, the person with experience would always win. And that was definitely Thomas, skilled and prepared, who twisted her hand with ease, and sidestepped behind her, bending her elbow against her back. The basic lock wrestling move set her nerves on fire as streaks of pain crept into her shoulder and elbow.

Thomas' other arm reached around her upper body, a move that prevented her left arm from doing much damage. It kept her contained. When he spoke, an undeclared amusement was in his words. "Good to see you, too."

"Let me go!" She struggled against his hold, her movements increasing the pressure against her limb, intensifying the pain.

"Not until you calm down," he said, calm, logical. All the things she remembered of him. "I don't want to dislocate your shoulder, but I will if you keep at this."

Harley ceased her efforts as the sensation of pain turning into pleasure threatened to buckle her knees. In an instant, her emotions flashed to another carnal side of herself. She leaned back against him, her voice low and sensual. "You always do know the best ways to hurt me, don't you Thomas?"

She heard him suck in a breath as her hips began to sway back and forth, friction, desire, lust. Once upon a time, it seemed they were destined to be lovers. But he couldn't handle the darkness she craved. He may have been emotionally hard on the inside, but he was far too gentle for her tastes, too careful. Couldn't handle the rough, uncontrollable passion that she offered. Thomas had many strengths but in the end, he was too weak to cope with her. And also, that betrayal thing. Really put a damper on her hopes of a future with him. But it didn't mean she couldn't toy with him a bit.

"Knock it off," he said, obviously affected by her motions.

Turning her head to the side to view him, she felt the blood on her cheek continue to dribble down, creating wet stains on her shoulder. "Oh come on. Don't tell me that you haven't fantasized about this a thousand times in the dark of your bedroom. Thought about those nights that it almost happened. Did you speak my name to the shadows as you came?"

With a disgusted grunt, more out of pretense than reality, he abruptly released her from his hold. Harley laughed as she felt him push her away. "You're far too easy, Thomas." Rubbing her arm to regain sensation, she turned to face him.

"No, that I suspect would be you," he commented, maintaining his false indignation at her usual devices. "Always pushing it too far."

With a grin, she ran a hand through her hair. "The envelope is for pussies. I like to shred it." Her fingers trailed down her head to run across her injured cheek. "Hope this doesn't scar." Her face was the only place left untouched on her body and she wanted to keep it that way. It was all about image.

"Come here," he said with a sigh and a gesture.

Harley closed the distance between them, looking up at him. Thomas had tended so many of her injuries in the past year. This was safe, comfortable. Not filled with the tension of moments ago. As his fingers reached up to examine the knife wound, she tried not to smile. Like old times. As if nothing had changed between them. She missed this. And she could admit to herself that she missed him. Besides Mr. J, he was the only one who understood her. In some ways, Thomas knew her better than Mr. J ever would. Her clown understood her darkness. But Thomas understood her light. Two sides diametrically opposed. The good, the bad, the ugly. And both men needed her fiercely. Difference was that all the lies Mr. J told were to make her see the truth she kept from herself. Thomas' lies were for his own benefit. Even so, there was the same honesty in his touch now, that she had felt when they said goodbye.

"Not deep enough to need stitches, so it shouldn't scar. Just going to bleed a lot, which I doubt you mind." He took a step back to give her space, though mostly because he perceived his probing touch was beginning to ignite her passion once more. "What are you doing here in such a dangerous area?"

"Underwater basket weaving," she replied, ignoring the sweet bliss from her face while looking him up and down. "And apparently, you're practicing your ninja skills. Though the red hair is wicked conspicuous."

Thomas, clothed in all black, smiled. The expression lightened his face considerably, a reminder than he was quite the eye-candy. "I find it throws my enemies off. After all, who expects a ginger to bust out fancy fighting moves?"

"Oh, kind of like bullfighting?" She laughed. "The red in your hair distracts them so you can get a sucker punch in?"

Thomas joined in on her laughter. It melted her heart a little to hear the sound. Rich, warm, genuine. His eyes spoke volumes that he missed these moments between them, as well. After a couple seconds, their laughter died out. The loud silence of Gotham pervaded the air, the buzz of the electric lines, the roar of the elevated trains, the screaming cars driving nearby. In the midst of it, Thomas and Harley stood, staring at one another, awkward and tense, seeing the past that could never die.

He broke the quiet first. "I saw you coming out of Falcone's."

"Yeah," she said. "Haven't seen the old bastard for awhile. Thought I should drop by and say hello. You know, for old time's sake." She crossed her arms over her chest. He wouldn't have begun this line of inquiry without a good reason and she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"And so soon after meeting with Cobblepot?" he asked.

There it was. Thomas wasn't deep enough to have that information so quickly unless he had a contact on the inside, or was there himself. And suddenly, a memory clicked from the previous evening. Inside the private room of the Iceberg Lounge, when she was walking around the table of mob scum, something caught her eye. A brief flash from the shadowy corner of ivory bandages and something brown, but when she blinked it was gone. She'd dismissed it as an overactive imagination. But it seemed, Thomas had been there after all, in his alter ego of Hush. His head would have been wrapped in bandages to prevent recognition and he typically wore a brown duster over a black body suit. The outfit would have blended well with the right covering. Problem was that Harley knew the costume too well and spotted him in his hiding place. He had no doubt ducked out of the way to avoid her identifying him. The fact that he was mentioning it now either meant that he wanted something from her and no longer cared if she knew of his involvement.

"So what did Cobblepot do to you?" she asked, shaking her head. Thomas had always been petty. A schemer as Mr. J would say. "Kick your puppy or something like that?"

Thomas' eyes narrowed at her. "Stay out of it, Harley."

"Calling me Harley, now? How refreshing."

"You said you preferred it," he said. "And I'm dead serious. Stay out of this."

Confused by the turn in conversation and trying to hide it, she took two steps back to lean back against the wall of the alley. "Not my deal. It's Mr. J's thing. I'm just along for the ride."

"You're going to get killed." His words were earnest and Harley thought she detected a soft sadness in his voice. "I don't want that."

The whole matter left Harley stumped. What the hell was going on? She wasn't like Mr. J. Couldn't instantly see the pattern. So, she played into it, hoping to get more information. "I've dealt with Falcone time and time again. Nothing out of the ordinary." She pushed off the wall to approach him, looking up into his eyes. "He likes me."

"Not Falcone you should be worried about," Thomas sighed. "God, Harley, you have no idea what you've gotten yourself mixed up in. This is so much bigger than you realize."

"Mr. J knows the score. He'll keep me safe." Her words sounded naïve even to herself but she carried on. "He has to do this and I'm going to help him. You should be more worried than me. You know what'll happen if you go against Mr. J again."

"You said you'd kill me."

"And I meant it. You get in our way and I will end you." Her hand reached up to stroke his cheek. "I don't want that, either."

Thomas took her hand into his own, pulling it down between them. "Then convince him to let it drop."

"Why should I?" she asked. Still so little information given and it was damn frustrating.

"I can't give you the exact reason but please do this. Because I asked you. Because it's important to me. Because you give a shit what happens to me and I don't want to fight with you anymore." Thomas squeezed her hand. "Please, Harley."

"Have you been threatened?" Her eyes gazed up into his, seeking out the truth and only finding one of his many mental walls.

He dropped her hand and took a step back. "It's my deal. I've been working on this for months." He wasn't going to answer. But his serious expression spoke volumes. Too much going on and she couldn't see the paths or why he was so adamant. It was beginning to worry her.

"I somehow doubt calling dibs will stop Mr. J if his mind is set," she said.

"I have faith in you," Thomas replied, unexpectedly turning to walk away. "You'll find a way. It was good to see you."

"You do realize this is emotional blackmail, you ass!" she called after him. The only response she got was his chuckling, before he disappeared around the corner.

Harley didn't know what to make of what just happened. Clearly, Thomas had something going on with Cobblepot. Was he working for him? Was he trying to kill him? Again, she asked herself what the hell was going on. He had said it was bigger. How could it get bigger than the entire mafia structure of Gotham? Resentful of Thomas' lack of answers, she vowed to figure out what was happening. She was no strategist but she had her ways. Sure, Mr. J would have figured this whole thing out in seconds, genius that he was. But Harley was determined and once she set her mind on something, she wouldn't stop until she got it.

Regardless of the mystery surrounding his request, Thomas was right. She did care what happened to him, despite their history. She didn't want to face off against him if she could avoid it. At the same time, she had the feeling that Mr. J wasn't going to drop his newest plan to bring down Gotham, no matter what she said. The only away to avoid the inevitable showdown was to discover the origins of this new game. Knowing Thomas, it would be circles inside circles, hard to unravel. The whole matter was bound to be a huge headache and not the pleasant kind.

As she mentally put aside her thoughts to examine at a later time, a glint of metal caught her eye from the pavement. She bent over to pick it up, smiling like a child. "Hey, free knife." The attacker from before had dropped it and now, it was all hers. "Must be my lucky night."

Putting the knife into her pocket, she stood up, glancing back to where Thomas disappeared. In a better mood, she continued her path to the car. But she couldn't help the foreboding feeling twisting in her stomach. Things were about to get messy. Just like old times.

* * *

**A/N: A longer chapter to make up for the delay. My life has been very hectic so my apologies. Hope you all enjoy! Questions, comments, feedback? Please review! **


	5. Reasons to Die

Chapter Four: Reasons to Die

"A traitor," Mr. J muttered to himself, his fingers tracing the beautiful slice on her cheek. Nothing would prevent the sensation for either of them. Flesh against flesh. Neither had gloves, makeup, nothing to impede the experience. And Harley was as pliant as ever, a doll in his hands. He was careful not to aggravate the wound. No scarring. Part of the charm of Harley was the contradiction, or as she called it, the hellequin. Face of an angel, body of a demon. The story she once told him in the beginning. He would preserve that tradition in her honor. And when the time came to end her life, Mr. J would attempt to leave the face unscathed, depending on the method of disposal.

Her news held minor interest. Harley wasn't likely to succeed on the first try, Falcone was too stubborn, but she opened a window to no surprise. One reason to keep her around. If he had regrets, losing her skill set would be on his list. She did have an uncanny ability to get into people's heads and not only make them do what she wanted, but also make it seem like it was their idea. Loathe as he was to admit it, she'd done it to him back in the asylum, not even realizing how her tendrils had infected him. Subconsciously, she wanted Mr. J to break her. Enticing him with her blank slate, her control. How could he refuse such an invitation? And like she had done to so many others, the idea planted by her was thought to be his own. For a short time. When he discovered her unwitting deception, he could have applauded. Brilliant. She was a perfect tool to be used.

"He's got a lot of people around him, but only a handful would know his whereabouts at all times." Harley's eyes closed in rapture as he prodded her fresh wound.

Rats were easy to find. Every organization had one, whether they were chatting up the cops or working with rivals. Greedy pigs growing fat on their ability to bow and scrape. In a town like Gotham, they didn't last long, hands caught in the cookie jar, but each one always thought they were going to be the exception. Potentials passed through his mind at lightning speed, narrowed down to the base four of any organization. Dismissed the fourth out of logic and knowledge. Couldn't play both sides and get the desired results. The statistical odds lay with one of the remaining three.

Her eyes opened, twinkling with wicked thoughts. "But I was thinking the bodyguard was a good bet, or maybe his son? Or one of the girls at his club? Information is the name of the game for a decent whore."

Ignoring her incessant blathering, his gaze searched beyond the surface of her façade. She blinked up at him with her baby blues, waiting for an answer to her questions. There was something more behind it all. A tell. Harley's blinks became more frequent when she was hiding something from him. Blink. Blink. Too fast. Secrets.

"Anything else you want to say?" Mr. J inquired, his hand spreading across the width of her cheek.

The blood had long since dried, tiny flakes dancing along his fingertips like rust. In response, she turned her head away from him, his fingers falling away from her warmth. Avoidance, something Harley didn't do often, or very well. He drew on his well-honed patience, watching her, knowing the conclusion to this dance. Harley already knew she was caught, knew what was in his mind. Dangerous to have someone so close, that knew him so well, but also a help at times like this. Dangerous for both of them. In a moment like this, he would have enjoyed seeing from her mind's eye. Did her mind shy away from his keen insight? Did she revel in the attention or think of the corruptive moments of true pain that he could inflict with her silence? Was he a monster or a god? Or to her, was he simply a man? A man who pierced her heart a thousand times and could see the very essence behind her mask. Love. Sentimentality. That would be Harley. One of the best jokes in the world.

With a total lack of grace, she flopped down onto a comfy chair, her legs sprawled over one arm, head resting on the other arm. He didn't move, eyes following her, his silent presence capturing her attention, demanding the unspoken truths. Only one option for the girl. A swallow from her, followed by the usual internal debate, and then the inevitable conclusion. Wasting both their time with such antics when the decision had been made the instant he realized there was more to tell.

"Thomas tracked me down by Falcone's hangout."

He lifted an eyebrow. Something unexpected. Part of the allure of Gotham. Despite most being lemmings and predictability was the order of the mob, the occasional surprise was what he lived for, craved. A piece of random news, throwing the curve ball and giving him something new to work through. "And what did the little prince want?"

He had been wondering why Harley wasn't bathed in the blood of her would-be rapists, especially in light of the new marking that lined her face. Blurred the story of the aftermath without detail and detail was key. He chalked it up to her flaws, not giving him perfection, the disappointment she was. But with the note that Elliot made an appearance, it clicked the night together. Meeting with Falcone, followed by the attack with Tommy interrupting. Stopped her from killing or distracted her long enough for the thugs to get away. Her attackers got lucky.

"He's involved in something with Cobblepot." Absently, she scratched at her neck, her other hand tapping erratically on her stomach. Another tell for her nervousness. "He, uh, wants us out of the way."

A smile crossed his lips. For some reason, the scenario amused him. "Oh, does he? Did he say why?"

"No." A slight shift in her eyes.

"But you suspect something," he pressed.

Harley crossed her legs atop the arm of the chair. "It's Thomas," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "His entire life is focused towards one goal. The downfall of Bruce Wayne. I mean, he only targeted you because you prevented him from accomplishing that goal at the Harvey Dent fundraiser. He's vindictive, petty, and he will stop at nothing to bring down Bruce."

"Not exactly true," he said, moving to crouch down at her side. "He had enough evidence of your," he opened his eyes in mock shock, "scandalous affair with Bruce Wayne. But he chose not to use it."

During her time away, Harley had chosen to assist Thomas with his desire to bring down Wayne, starting with the famous family reputation. Again, utilizing her best attribute, she was able to get into the orphan's head, planting the seeds that Harley Quinn was yet another victim in the grand game of Gotham. Bruce had taken the bait and allowed her into his home, his life, giving her the opportunity to talk out all her problems, likely with the hope that he could convince her to turn herself in to the cops. Another bleeding heart. But it was merely a deception to get Bruce into compromising situations with a known criminal as well as tugging on his heart strings and making him care for Harley, so that when she faked her own death at the hands of Hush, Bruce would snap. Bring the killer out. A decent concept, if not for two big problems. One was Elliot himself, sacrificing her plan on the altar of revenge against Mr. J. The other was something Harley was entirely unaware of. The little things, the big things.

"Wasn't the point." She shrugged, dismissing any deeper thought like a child. "Why use them when it was all just a set up to get to you? They mean nothing."

Mr. J resisted the urge to slap her, wanting to knock some sense into that foolish head of hers. Blinders on both sides, a narrow path, only seeing what she wanted and not the whole picture. Pathetic. He stood and began to pace while rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand as he spoke. "Photographs of Bruce Wayne getting cozy with Harley Quinn. No, I'm sure you're right that it means nothing, and no reason for Dr. Tommy to send them to the press or anything. It wouldn't completely destroy Wayne's reputation to be seen with one of Gotham's Most Wanted."

"Not what I meant," Harley said, bristling at his obvious sarcasm.

"Care to elaborate, then?" He extended his hand in invitation.

"It's like this," she began, her head swiveling in his direction as she addressed him. "The thought was to bring Wayne down to our level. Get him rolling in the dirt, destroy his soul along with his reputation. Without that final act of him turning, the photographs are pointless."

His pacing ended at the arm of the comfy chair, his body hovering over her head, eyes scanning her reversed form. Blonde threads of her hair began to cling to the thighs of his black pants, a static effect. "Still damaging evidence and Elliot isn't one to waste a resource like that and you damn well know it." He bent over her, so his upside down face could fill her vision. "He was protecting you."

"Can't imagine why," she said, her blue eyes casting downwards to look at her body. More avoidance. "I don't give a fuck one way or the other if Gotham thinks I'm boning Bruce."

"Yes, you do," Mr. J said, placing a finger on her forehead and pressing down hard. She looked back up at him, her eyes brimming with epiphany from the unspoken words between them. Didn't need to be said. Mr. J was her world. Anything else would be a lie and that lie could not be tolerated anymore. Not even by her delusional side. It shamed her that Bruce Wayne knew her entire history, a tearful confession amidst her play-acting. All part of the plan. Wayne might have been discreet, not gone to the press, but he understood the why of Harley. Her past, her present, her decisions. That made him far more dangerous, because despite her focused conviction under Mr. J's control, she still clung to her wild uncontrolled side, the barest thread. Put that in Wayne's path and her world of Mr. J might crumble.

Another reason she had to die, as if he needed more proof.

A soft clearing of a throat brought him back. Lost, lost with Harley. Happened too often. She had that uncanny knack of pulling his full attention, causing the world to fall away, when he should be looking anywhere else. For a few minutes there, it was only him, Harley, and that damned chair. Only one other person could command his focus in such a way. And another reason added. Distractions.

"It's ready," a voice said, quiet, meek. Afraid to interrupt.

A turn of his head to scan the woman who had spoken. He rapped Harley's forehead with his fingers before he danced across the expansive room to his computer expert, Livingston. She rarely used her first name, Kristin, wanting to maintain a professional appeal to her many clients, and Mr. J respected that decision. Looking around as he walked, her apartment was an homage to all things electronic. Flat screen televisions fixed to the wall, three of them, a multi-taskers playground. The chair Harley was occupying sat in front of the TVs and her eyes were darting up to view the muted, closed captioned programming. A modern kitchen with all the latest gadgets. But the real focus of the living room was the large set up of computer equipment in the back corner. A large desk that wrapped around the user on three sides. Upright shelving that contained laptops, PCs, monitors, keyboards, each running scripts that he was unfamiliar with. The entire scene held beauty as this was truly Livingston's shrine.

As if paying homage to his thoughts, he noted Livingston seated like a queen in front of her computer bay, legs crossed daintily with a cigarette held between the fingers of her left hand. Her once-pink hair had been altered to a purple with black streaks throughout, hair pushed behind her ear to reveal the line of metal rings from cartilage to lobe. Skin-tight jeans, black tank top with no bra, nothing to hide the nipple piercings poking through the material. A flick of her fingers and the ashes of her cigarette landed in a skull shaped ashtray to her side.

Pointing towards one of her screens, she said, "They keep changing the codes but I've managed to back door a secret one that you can use at any time."

Stopping to the side of her and peering down at the indicated screen, he found in himself the desire to rip the girl's lip ring out, a ridiculous decoration. Violence would only beget violence and rile Harley up to dangerous levels. He could keep control when she never could. And Livingston was too useful to kill or main for entertainment. Annoying to replace her skill level. Years back, he saved her from an abusive father and she'd been working for him ever since, a debt never paid in her eyes. Her morals thrown out the window any time her survival was at risk. A perfect example of the grander message he was trying to convey, but if he showed her off, cops would descend too quickly.

His eyes squinted to read the screen in front of him. "Time frame?"

"If you don't let me know in advance that you're using it, I'll still get an alert once it's active," she replied. "I should be able to buy you some extra time, but I wouldn't think more than fifteen minutes tops."

"More than enough," he said, extending his hand out to Livingston.

She pulled a flash drive out of her laptop and placed it in his waiting hand. "Oh, and I got a message from your friend."

Harley, demonstrating her usual lack of attentiveness, had grown bored with the televisions and slithered over, folding her arms over the back of Livingston's chair. "And what friend would that be?" Her voice held a dark lustfulness, her eyes peering over at Mr. J, as if hoping for a new toy.

For her part, Livingston raised an eyebrow in query. Mr. J shook his head slowly, deliberately at the pair of them. Need to know and Harley didn't. More importantly, she'd fuck it up completely if she knew. Set assignments, that was the way to manage her. "Harley, go sit down."

A pout crossed her lips at his refusal. "The news is boring and repetitive, you know, since I already got the floor show on their top story."

Interest peaked. "Explain."

"Oh, some U.S. congressman died at Falcone's earlier. Heart attack. They keep saying he was the head of the transportation committee, which really just means he was selling his vote to the top bidder. Corrupt asshats." She waved a hand in dismissal. "I didn't think it was important."

Her flippant comment sent his mind into a spiral of fury, curbed only by the imagination that took over. All paths became clear, impersonal and private. Possibilities, infinite, beautiful, terror-filled. So many ways to die. Ways to kill. End it all, bring the thunder. Harley was destined to die but was this the perfect moment? Would her essence be accurately captured in this moment? Or was this to be a masterpiece played elsewhere, another time? His mind separated, flowing in many directions at once, the outcomes racing through his consciousness.

Freeze frame, slow it down.

Drawing the gun in his pocket, bullet speeding through the air, the bang too loud in the quiet of the room, drowning out the hum of the computers. The crowning shot to the head, her legacy preserved. Simple, fast, painless. Harley's dead eyes staring up at him, the surprise ever so clear on her face. Breathtaking artistry with such a basic statement. No, too sudden and not enough for her to understand. He needed to savor the moment and she needed to know what was happening and why.

Reverse, back to the moment.

Her flippant comment. Patience taking over, the eye in the midst of the storm. Waiting until they left, inside the elevator. Emergency stop, moving her to the wall, stripping the clothing off her body. Too many buttons, frantic groping. Giving her the final farewell that she would enjoy. Hands gripping around her throat as he took her to the heights of pleasure, strangulation as he originally intended. A change of mind. Snapping her neck upon his orgasm. Her body left for the doorman or Livingston to find. No, too mundane. It screamed banality and Mr. J was far more original than that.

Stop. Reverse.

Flippant comment. Gun again. A shot to the window, reminders of the past. Wind blowing in, too high up. One last kiss to bring her closer to the edge. Then, a simple push. No. Disaster as she grabbed his hand out of instinct, pulling him toward her. Trying to stay in place but gravity calls. The rush of air flipping his hair around as he witnessed her satisfied smile at getting what she always wanted. Together in life, together in death. The ground too close. Never this way. His death was destined for someone else.

Pause. Her face, so angelic with the sun shining upon it as she fell. No, this was not right. Reverse.

Nothing. Not yet, not now. Too soon. Plans had to be made. Waiting until the time when he could give her a real send off. Placing her in the correct line, the correct time. A warehouse. No, an apartment building. No, Arkham. Yes, too perfect. Back to the beginning. The connection made and severed at the same location. Harley would understand the irony. The entire place would become his newest piece of art. Explosives in the basement. No visual on the girl, none needed to imagine her body in flames, laughing as death took her, knowing Mr. J was her end.

Reverse. Back to the present.

His hand twitched and he let go of his inner restraint, moving to grab Harley by the back of the neck and slam her face into Livingston's desk. The skull shaped ashtray was knocked aside by Harley's flailing arms. The hacker choked out a surprised cry, before getting the hell out of the way, her desk chair flying backwards across the hardwood floor. Harley struggled fiercely, gaining leverage against his hold by pushing down on the desk with her hands. She should have given up, the idiot. With a snort of derision, he kicked her legs out from under her. Her knees crashed into the floor, a sickening pop audible through her enraged grunts. A shifting kneecap, one of her many flaws, would prevent her from moving until she jammed it back into place. Immobile and about to learn a lesson.

With her uninjured cheek smashed against the unforgiving metal of the desk, helpless, she snarled like an animal. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

Mr. J leaned down to her ear, his hand moving up from her neck to get a good tight grasp on her hair. "Didn't think it was important?" With a swift motion, he raised her head into the air and then slammed it back into the desk. "Not important?"

Her struggles ceased as the ecstasy of pain flooded through her. Shifting emotions, always in motion. Seconds, minutes, too quick. Agony to pleasure, anger to lust. A creature of desires never fulfilled. She was a magnificent experiment. Her breathing changed, deeper, drowning in the carnal impulses inside. He couldn't see her eyes but he knew too well the shrinking blue as her pupils expanded. She had lost the battle, giving in to him, as expected.

"Everything is important, Harley," he growled at her. "You never leave a single detail out." In truth, she was right. The congressman's death was nothing to him. She would be pissed to learn he had no interest in this matter. But she had failed to mention it, much to his ire, and that could not be allowed to stand. A point had to be made clear. No detail, no matter how small could be ignored. Too much happening. Anything could be linked. "Never. Understood?"

A pleased gasp escaped her. "Yes."

"Good." A question, that had lurked in the back of his mind since the previous night, floated back to the surface. "Now, while I have your attention, Harley, why don't you tell me your last thought?" His free trailed to the front of her neck to stroke the bruises there, stimulating memory.

The corner of her lip turned up. "Go to hell."

Not stubborn, not truly. She would break with the right actions on his part. Pleasure combined with strength often revealed the keys to her mind. He softened the grip on her hair, massaging her scalp. "You can't hold on forever, Harley."

"Probably not," she purred, the grin widening. "But I'll make you work hard to break me."

A rake of nails across the neck, drawing a hiss. "It wasn't hard the first time," he spoke in a soft tone. "What makes you think this will be any different?" His lips were pressed against her ear, words piercing into her.

"Uh, guys?" Livingston's voice broke their private moment. "I don't know if you're planning to fight or fuck, but can you please not do it on the desk? The equipment took a long time to get right."

Mr. J's eyes moved to take in the nervous hacker, a smile spreading across his face as he considered destroying the setup just for the hell of it. Harley, seeing her opportunity for escape, yanked downwards away from his loose grip, attempting to snake her body to the ground. Instinctive move, his hand tightened harder on her hair to keep her in place. But she was quick, a viper in human flesh, and her locks slid from his grasp, only a few yellow strands entwined with his fingers to mark her former presence.

His gaze shifted downwards as he debated whether to bring her back to heel, but she had understood his objective and he could always torture the other information out of her later. Below, Harley used her hands to twist her body into a sitting position on the floor, and with an annoyed look up at Mr. J, she jerked her injured knee to the side. Another loud pop echoed in the room.

"Ahhh," Harley sighed in bliss. "So much better. I like having working limbs." She stretched a hand out to Mr. J, a silent request for him to help her up.

He tossed her his usual 'are-you-fucking-kidding-me' look and stepped away, nodding to the hacker to indicate she should continue working. With a giggle, Harley hoisted herself off the ground, brushing her pants off. Livingston pushed her chair back into position, her eyes darting anxiously between the deadly couple as if waiting for them to start fighting again. With a shaky hand, she righted the ashtray and repositioned it, brushing ashes off the desk, careful to move them away from her equipment. Nervous, jittery, Mr. J understood why the girl hardly ever left her condo except for supplies and the occasional craving for human companionship.

Livingston was sheltered, always had been. Started with daddy dearest and then became a permanent mark on her spirit. As a result, the violence of Mr. J's world rarely penetrated her cocoon of isolation, even though she knew damn well that her inventions and intel killed many people in the end. She'd seen a few things in her time, but avoided as much as she could, each act leaving a psychological scar and adding to her desire to be a hermit. Behind the plastic of her computers, she saw the results of her work but allowed none of it to touch her. It wasn't real until it was up close, as she had found out. And here in her tower, she could deny her collusion.

"Harley," he commanded. "Go tend to that." He shook a finger at the cut on her cheek.

"Bandages are in the bathroom, down the hall," Livingston offered.

Harley narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but wouldn't test the limits of his patience when it came to her lack of submissiveness so soon. Mr. J didn't want her around and she knew it. He stared her down, making his intentions clear, and with a roll of her eyes, she sauntered down the hallway. Smart girl. Livingston waited a moment for the sound of the bathroom door closing. Then her fingers moved deftly over one of her keyboards, typing faster than his eyes could track.

A couple of seconds later, a screen displayed a decrypted message. It read, "Meet at third location. Usual day and time."

There was no name. Not anymore. Not since the first transmission. There was no need to compromise identities. Only Mr. J, Livingston, and the contact knew about the arrangement and it was best to keep it that way. The risk was high if anyone discovered the intrigue. He had no reservations of Harley's loyalty if she discovered the truth. Girl had little facts trapped in that brain pan, far more than she should and she'd die before spilling. No, the concern was that she'd want to assist, lending her helping hand. That was where it could fall apart. Manipulations and misdeeds destroying his carefully constructed foundations. Harley was closer to the situation then she realized and her emotional volatility could wreck everything.

"Should I send back a confirmation?" Livingston asked, looking up at him. "It's kind of short notice, I know, with it being tonight. But it could be important."

Mr. J frowned. It could also be nothing. Wouldn't be the first time his contact merely wanted to be in his presence, soak up the vibes, and get reassurance that this was the correct path. Indulgence was granted to keep the relationship alive, but with the events that had already occurred in the evening, he desired the chance to work through the pieces Harley had given him. Same time, the contact could provide further information that would illuminate the tricky parts. The answer was apparent.

"Set it up," he said.

Livingston nodded, typing quickly, her purple hair seeming to bounce in time with her finger motions. "If you get anything new, you can have Doc drop it off tomorrow." The words were non-nonchalant but the meaning was anything but.

The thought brought the smile back to his face. Doc had become fixated on Livingston over the past few months. When he had free time, he'd park on the street by her building hoping for a glimpse of his new paramour. Rare with her reclusive lifestyle. Mr. J didn't care to find out if Livingston knew about Doc's stalking, but it was likely she'd caught him on one of her many surveillance sweeps. Since Doc discovered his "love" for the hacker, he hadn't come up once when he'd drive Mr. J to her condo, too anxious to be in her company. He preferred admiration from afar. Livingston's suggestion would force a confrontation. If Mr. J had more time, or more interest, he might have probed further to see if she was about to snap from Doc's behavior and shut him down, or if she had her eye on the mad man in return. He did tend to attract the crazies so it wouldn't be a revelation.

He nodded acquiescence to her proposal. Business was done. Flash drive in his pocket, a guarantee for the future, and a meeting for midnight. Annoyed that Harley didn't anticipate the end of their visit, he strode down the hallway to the bathroom, opening the door without knocking.

"We're going." His eyes had to adjust to the brightness. It was a basic guest bathroom with nothing fancy, but the white tiling and blinding lights created a white room feel.

Standing in front of the mirror, Harley was in the process of cleaning the wound, a tissue and some peroxide in her hand. Her blue eyes darted to his reflection in exasperation. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Mr. J, it's been two minutes since you sent me in here. This shit takes more time than that."

Every so often, he found her mouthy retorts charming. This was not one of those times. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her towards him, uncaring as the bottle of peroxide slipped from her grip and spilled on the floor. "Now."

Surprised by his sudden action, she stumbled into him, showing her clumsy side once more. Her free hand slammed against his chest in an attempt to steady herself. When she looked up into his eyes, she beamed at him, unable to help the joy and love she felt in his presence. He'd call her emotions pathetic but they were her groundwork and the source of her usefulness. Allowed him to mold and craft her into something worthy. And even though her value was coming to a close, he'd nourish her addictions to the end. The look of bewilderment, followed by acceptance, would be his reward for patience.

Her fingers clutched the material of his t-shirt, gripping it tightly to pull him down for a kiss. Though, it seemed she was demanding, she gave a light tug to seek his acquiescence. He permitted the gesture, granting her the right to let loose her instincts and indulge her need for affection. Her lips were moist, hiding the slight chapping due to chewing on them. The slight hint of blood from her cheek wound touched his tongue. Contrary to any novelist's poetic prose, there was no definitive taste to a person. No cinnamon or emotion or flowers. Whatever crap they make up to create romance. Reality was far harsher. Mr. J could always taste the decay behind the disguise of toothpaste, breath mints, garlic, whatever. It was the essence of every person. That delightful decay. He didn't hide his rotting core. Harley sucked it in every time she placed her lips against his, a willing slave to his blight. And he reveled in her desiccating atrophy.

The kiss was brief but Harley kept her lips close to his as she spoke. "What would you do without me?"

An unanticipated question, though it didn't seem random. He wondered what thoughts were playing themselves out inside her head, and if she had somehow become privy to his own. "Be less annoyed by stupid questions." he responded.

She pulled back further, her eyes moving slowly over his bare face, taking in the crinkles, the scars, the color of his flesh. "Don't be purposely obtuse, Mr. J. You know damn well what I mean." She extracted her wrist from his earlier hold. "No Harley around to give you a way to release all that tension. I'm not talking about fucking since you can do that with anyone. But those women wouldn't be able to understand why you do what you do, or why you do it to them. Not like me. There are no replacements."

She released the grapple on his shirt, trailing her fingers down his body, softly stroking the scars she knew lurked underneath the thin material. "So, knowing that, what would you do without me?"

Mr. J stared hard at her, unsure of how to answer for once. The question had merit and that troubled him. With all his musings, he had yet to consider what life without Harley would evolve into. While he had functioned well prior to their meeting, some aspects of life had become much easier with her around. For one, her daredevil nature meant that no job was too risky for her and his work could be done without leaving a trail of dead henchmen behind. She had no compunctions about using her body to get what she wanted and would kill with little provocation or remorse. Intelligent enough to grasp his desires and not ask too many questions. A tool but by far the most useful.

Yet, he was loathe to admit, she was more than that. Harley held significance, not just as an achievement to his manipulation, but as the beacon of what he was striving to create inside each individual. No, there was even more. Not the physical. Her screams were entertaining, especially when they came from a place of fear or true pain. Infrequent for her, but others could provide that amusement if so desired. And sex was sex, nothing new. With her, though, it held creativity which spurred his mind into new directions not considered. A muse of sorts. He pushed beyond the surface and look deeper. In the darkest parts of his mind, Mr. J could see his tears, her arms comforting. Those times never truly existed. But they did. Harley embodied trust and undying loyalty. She would give up every part of herself rather than give up the secrets whispered in the dark. She was the other half to the whole and other such sappy, romantic crap. For a brief moment, he could understand it.

That tiny spark flared up for the second time. Emotion. Reminding him of the danger that Harley posed. Another reason. He pushed that wretched feeling down while simultaneously pushing her physically away from him, as if her mere existence was setting his body on fire with bitter pestilence. The corner of his lips turned up, his tongue tasting the inside of his cheek as she worked to maintain her balance. Harley returned his stare, unafraid, silently requiring his answers. He was more than happy to oblige.

"I'd move on."

In the silence of the bathroom, he could almost hear her heart break, a beautiful mental image. The energy changed and a sorrow took hold of her insides, filling him with satisfaction. Her face didn't show this but her eyes were desperately trying not to fill with tears. Deplorable emotions, useless and foolhardy. Mercurial insides, shifting, changing. Mr. J didn't contain his urge to mock her openly for her display. His cackling laughter filled the tiny room, only further shaming her for asking such a question. She would never do so again. Never invoke that spark inside of him, twisting, gnawing.

As he exited the bathroom, his laughter still echoing against the tiles, he said, "If you're not downstairs in five minutes, you can walk home."

Five minutes later, he started the car and left. No Harley. Annoyed that she made him wait needlessly when he could have been moving, always moving, getting the work done. Yet another reason. Harley, it seemed, was making his decision easy. Still, he needed to work through the how and when, but the why was shored up. With Livingston's building becoming a ghost in the rearview mirror, one thought was resolute in his mind. Sooner was better than later.

* * *

"If you're not downstairs in five minutes, you can walk home," he said.

Harley heard him but she wasn't listening. She was inside her own head, going through the answer to her question. Unbeknownst to Mr. J, she'd asked him the very thing that haunted her mind before he almost killed her. What would he do without her? The thought that he'd been so insistent to learn. And if he had figured out that she'd given him those words, he would have said, thrown it back in her face. He didn't know. One-up on her lover, for once.

Unfortunately, his snide answers didn't give her the peace she was craving. She watched his face as he thought about it, mentally rolling through all the ways that she affected his life, the good and the bad. But in the end, he gave her a biting retort. It pained her to hear him bat away her serious question. The words didn't matter. It was his blatant dismissal. A disregard for her, completely. For a short time there, she had begun to believe they were equals, or the closest equivalent to Mr. J's viewpoint. Any such thoughts were shattered tonight. Equals knew what was important to each other.

Leaning down, she picked the bottle of peroxide off the floor and set it on the sink, tossing a towel over the spilled contents. Harley could have cleaned better but it wasn't her house and she didn't give a shit. Livingston could deal with the rest. She meandered out of the bathroom and approached Livingston, who was in the process of lighting another cigarette.

Livingston seemed more at ease with Mr. J gone, her personality and energy changing, and she glanced Harley, her eyebrow raising in question. "Not going with him?"

"Fuck him," Harley said, with a smile. "I'd rather hang with you."

"Don't put me in the middle of any fights you have going," Livingston responded, taking a drag off the cigarette, the smoke clouding the room. "I value my life far more than yours."

A bitter smile. "Then we have something in common." Harley leaned against the desk, mindful of the fragile computer equipment behind her. "You ever want to quit?"

"Smoking? Who doesn't?"

Harley laughed. "No, I mean quit working for Mr. J."

Livingston leaned back in her chair, turning it slightly to face Harley, her brown eyes thoughtful. "Once. Only one time that I really considered it."

"What happened?"

There was a slight pause, eyes glazing over in memory. "It was before his first major spree here in Gotham. He needed me to design a remote detonator, accessible via a phone call." Another drag. "Wasn't the first time he had that kind of request. So when I finished it, I met him to deliver the prototype as usual, and he had this guy with him. Marshall was his name. Nice bloke. He'd been with Joker since the beginning of his planning."

Harley rolled her eyes at Livingston calling him Joker. Someone who worked so closely with the man should have had something better. Doc called him "boss." Harley called him "Mr. J." Livingston didn't need to resort to using the media's nickname. At the same time, if Mr. J never gave her a name, Livingston wasn't the type to rock the boat and make something up. Then again, with her computer skills, she might have gotten curious and discovered his real name and was taking pains to keep her knowledge secret. As much as Harley wanted to pry open that brain and dig out the secrets, she figured that was a conversation for another night.

"I explained how the trigger worked and how to attach to a bomb. Simple delivery mechanism but some complicated software so it needed some testing and tweaking. And he-" Livingston inhaled her smoke slowly, a counter for her nerves. "-he took it from me, handed it to Marshall, who walked it over to what I assumed was a controlled blast area. Nothing but the explosive that I could see. Marshall started attaching it and that's when I noticed Joker pulling out a phone and entering in a number."

"The number for the trigger?" Harley asked.

Livingston nodded. "It took me a moment to understand that but I figured he was just readying himself for the test. Across the warehouse, Marshall shouted that he thought he had it. Joker didn't wait for him to clear the blast radius. He just hit send and watched Marshall blow to pieces." Her face was blank as she spoke, as if reliving the shock and horror all over again. "It was close enough that some splatter hit us. Pieces of Marshall. And then Joker turned to me, that sick smile on his face as if he got off on my reaction, and said 'I'll take three.'" She shuddered. "Yeah I wanted to quit."

"But you didn't."

"No, but I made it very clear that he wasn't to bring me around that stuff again. I'll help but I don't want to see the results." She held out the cigarette to Harley, who in turn took a drag before passing it back. "I know, I know. I see it on TV but it's not the same as real life. I'm sure you, of all people, get that."

"Yeah I do." Harley smiled. "But I got desensitized early. You witness a few more Marshalls being blown sky high and you'd get there too."

"I don't ever want to get there." The hacker pulled a keyboard onto her lap. "So, why did you really stay here? I doubt it's for my amusing anecdote. And if it's for sex, you're S.O.L. because I've seen what you do to your lovers. You're like a praying mantis."

A shrug. "I usually don't bite their heads off. Not into Hannibal Lector-ing them." Harley stuck out her tongue, scrunching up her face in disgust. "But yeah, you're right. I was hoping you could do me a favor."

"Depends on the favor."

"Can you track down what Thomas Elliot's been up to lately?" Harley asked.

"You mean this?" Livingston opened a file cabinet drawer inside the desk and pulled out a large manilla folder. Harley's eyes widened in surprise which only made the hacker smile wider in pride. "After that whole deal with him earlier this year, I figured you or Joker would eventually ask for something like this. Early bird and all. I set up a program to track him. It covers all the basic stuff, financials, work reports, any time he's pinged one of my systems, but it's not super in-depth. One pager every week, essentially. If you need more information on any item, let me know." She handed the folder to Harley.

Harley opened it, glancing through its contents. Exactly as Livingston said. "Damn, you're good."

"I know."

With Mr. J gone, she had become cocky, a hint to her real persona. So scared of what Mr. J would do when in reality, the bigger monster was Harley. Livingston may have seen proof but she was a woman who had to witness it with her own eyes. It was tempting to think of what she could do to the skinny woman, but she kept in check, Mr. J's mental voice telling her no.

"Thanks," Harley said. "There's one other thing. I want to know who Mr. J's contact is."

"Oh, hell no," Livingston said, crushing out the cigarette. "If he wanted you to know, you'd know."

Harley smiled, pushing off the desk to kneel in front of Livingston in supplication. "Please?" She put her hands together in a pleading gesture.

"No amount of prostrating will help you, here, Harley."

"I need this, Kristin." Using her real name was a risk but Harley wanted to establish kinship between them, make her more pliable. "I need to prove that I can be trusted with this kind of information and not say a word, then maybe he won't do this anymore" Her fingers brushed her throat, an attempt to use her bruises for her own gain. "Maybe he'll see me on the same level and start treating me better." Harley willed her eyes to water a bit, to sell the abuse victim story.

Livingston sighed, a sign that she was softening to the feminine plight. "If he finds out-"

"I promise," Harley interrupted, "he'll never know you told me. I'm good at keeping secrets."

A pause from the hacker as she pondered the situation, tapping her nails against the keyboard in a bolero rhythm. "Alright, alright. I'll help you this once. But this better not come back to me."

Harley nodded solemnly, drawing a cross over her heart. "Hope to die." Sucker.

Livingston typed a few commands into her computer, pulling forth a file. As soon as the opening image popped, Harley instantly recognized Mr. J's contact. Her eyes widened in amazement, not expecting such a huge betrayal. It explained so much of what had been happening in the city, and her own part in the chaos. And slowly, she began to put the pieces together, seeing the past, and what the future might hold if the path was steered correctly.

"Holy hell," she said in awe. "Gotham is fucked."

Livingston could only nod in reply.

* * *

No light except for the moon. His contact shied away from the light like a vampire. Understandable, considering her history. Mr. J stood at the pier, watching the river roll in the light breeze. Though his mind was constantly working, there was a sense of calm to be found with the lack of distractions. Only the buzz of white noise, humming of electrical lines, the occasional car passing near. Rare times to be alone with his mind. His fingers strummed against his lips, considering the many options that lay before him.

He wore no makeup. Not for this occasion. Bare skin kept the connection, allowing for the so-called human condition to take its course. Clothing was loose, black, blending in with the darkness. Multiple exits and the river for cover should anything go awry. The dirty river water could give him cancer but he doubted he'd live long enough to be a bed-ridden geriatric with no teeth, crying out in pain. No, if Mr. J had his way, his favorite knight would see to his ending long before then.

The sound of a car. Lights illuminating the wooden boards of the pier and casting his shadow against the water below. He didn't turn, waiting for the engine to shut off, headlights to dim. Only when the night was still again did he push away from the railing and walk towards the car. Big grin settling on his face. Unnatural but the role had to be played and he could be the finest actor. The car door opened, interior lighting for a brief second to brighten the figure shrouded in black. Head covered with a low brimmed hat that concealed the face. The shape that exited the vehicle was feminine, hips swaying back and forth as she approached him.

Gloved fingers rose to her head, gently removing the hat and exposing her to the darkness, a comfort for someone with her condition. Very few could look at her without flinching, the skin on her face horribly disfigured from burns and failed attempts to use skin grafts to cover the worst of it. The lid of her left eye drooped permanently, eyebrows missing. Her nose was intact, if pinkened from the scarring. The fire had changed her facial frame and she looked alien to many eyes, which was why she wore the hat and continued to wear the shoulder length wig. The shadows were her ally and her only true companion. Except for Mr. J.

Before he could speak, she wrapped her arms around him in a big hug, her face pressing against his chest. "Oh, Jay. I missed you."

With a smile, Mr. J returned the affectionate gesture, his arms circling her frail frame. A soft kiss to her head in greeting before he stepped back with his wide grin. "It's good to see you, Sofia."

The scarred skin that surrounded her mouth cracked as she raised her lips in an unnerving attempt to smile. Mr. J didn't fault her. It was the best that Carmine Falcone's daughter could manage.

* * *

**A/N: I hope the content of this chapter more than makes up for my longer-than-usual absence. I'm going to try to update more frequently, but I'm not promising anything. It's more important to me to product high quality work. In any case, lots of things happening in this chapter, big reveals, and some things that will come into play much later in the story. I hope you all enjoyed it. Cheers!**

**Questions, comments, feedback? Please review! **


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